Always Trust Your Wingman
by holymfwickee
Summary: Outtakes from "My First Date with Katniss Everdeen". Chapter 1 - a snippet from the Wingman's POV. Chapter 2 - Madge goes on her first date. Chapter 3&4 - An unconventional double date. Chapter 5 - Snippet from Katniss' POV.
1. Always Trust Your Wingman

A/N: This is an outtake from _My First Date with Katniss Everdeen_ immediately following the end of chapter 11. And to make things really fun, instead of Peeta's POV this outtake is in the POV of his faithful wingman, Prim. It's just a little snippet that I couldn't get out of my head and thought I would share.

**Always Trust Your Wingman **

Momma tells me to blow the candles out before I go to bed. I change into my nightgown. Rinse my face and hands in the sink. I already checked on Lady and left her a blanket. It's a touch chilly outside. Buttercup is waiting for me at the foot of the bed. After Rory and Gale left for home he finally returned from wherever it is he hides. All that's left is to blow out the candles.

I decide to wait. Just five minutes more. Katniss hasn't been gone long, but it's dark and she won't wander around at night. She knows it would worry me, and I am worried, but not for any reason she might guess.

I think Momma meant to stay up and wait for Katniss, too, but she had three house calls today—one was for a baby who had what Momma called, whooping cough—and she fell asleep when her head hit the pillow. It's okay. It's better if I wait up for Katniss. Momma doesn't like Peeta as much as I do.

Sometimes, I think no one likes Peeta as much as I do.

And there happens to be several valid reasons to like him. Peeta's kind, like his dad who gives me generous trades for my goat cheese. I get better trades than Katniss gets with her squirrels sometimes. She says it's because he likes me better, but I like to think my cheeses are just that delicious. And Peeta is funny—sort of. That type of funny when someone makes light of themselves, rather than try to impress you by taking digs at other people. I hate when boys, or girls for that matter, do that. Peeta's nice looking, too. I'm not the only one who notices that. Marilyn tells me over and over again how jealous she is that one of the Mellark brothers walks me home from school. She begs me for details. I don't say much. To her. Or anyone from school. It's not something I wish to brag about and with the school year out, they'll stop asking. Peeta is my friend. I'm positive of that, but I'm not blind. I mean, there's a smile he shares with me, and then there's a smile he shares with my sister. They are not the same.

Buttercup strolls out of the bedroom. He lazily hops onto the threadbare couch and immediately head butts my elbow in search of a scratch. "I'm coming to bed soon." I comfort my kitty with a liberal scratch behind his bad ear that coaxes a healthy purr from his throat. "We have to wait for Katniss." And while I've been told many times that cats cannot understand language, at the mention of my sister's name Buttercup's purr lowers to a growl that shakes his skinny little body. "You are an exhausting cat, but I love you." I tuck my nose in his fur and give him a kiss. Katniss tells me not to do that as I put myself at risk of catching fleas, but Katniss isn't here.

Five more minutes. I'll wait five more minutes.

I settle back against the couch cushion. It's been a strange day. A strange week. Katniss came home damp and shivering last Tuesday. She said she tripped and fell into the creek, nor did she return with any game. Both of these things are very unlike her. Momma seemed skeptical, but she didn't say anything. Katniss was quiet as she warmed up in bed, wrapped in the bedclothes and sipping hot tea. _That_ wasn't so odd. But I'm quiet, too, and I noticed the way she repeatedly touched her fingertips to her lips, the way she'd stare off at nothing, the tiny smile she hid behind her mug.

Those things all but disappeared over the following seven days, until today, when I saw not one of those gestures.

The door wrenches open suddenly, and although I've been waiting for Katniss' return, I still jump. Katniss says I've all the bravery of a duckling that hasn't yet lost its down. I hope I outgrow that. A little bit at least.

Katniss is equally surprised to see me awake and waiting for her. She startles upon seeing me, but rights herself almost instantaneously. Buttercup doesn't appreciate the commotion and scurries off the couch back to the safety of the space under our bed.

"Prim. What are you doing up?" Katniss scolds. Before I can answer, she notices the candles. "Why are these still lit? It's wasteful." Again, she doesn't wait for a response. She blows out the candle sitting on the television. Then she crosses the room and extinguishes the candle on the table. I barely catch a glimpse of the red flush staining Katniss' cheeks before the room is blanketed with darkness, save for some moonlight coming in through the far window.

This is the side of my sister which has been prominent for the past few days: biting, guarded, and…unhappy. That is, when she's around. She spent most of her time in the woods over the past week, only coming home for dinner. She's not usually this way. Yes, Katniss can be rather frank at times and yes, she is guarded, but she never lets anything get to her, for lack of a better phrase. Sometimes I wish I could be more like that. The dumbest things make me cry.

Katniss collapses into one of the dining chairs—the one Buttercup sharpens his claws on. She rests her head in her hands. She's not crying. She's just very still.

Tentatively, I stand up and take two steps toward her. "Katniss? Are you alright?"

The distant cry of a whippoorwill interrupts the heavy pause that follows the question.

"I'm fine," Katniss murmurs.

Two more steps. "Did you have a nice time with Peeta?"

"It's late. Go to bed," she says flatly.

_I'll take that as a no._

I love my sister, but sometimes I wish she'd tell me things. Secrets. Like sisters are supposed to. I slip into an empty dining chair. Katniss' face is hidden in shadow behind her hand and behind the hair that's fallen free from her braid. Questions burn on my lips, questions I doubt she'd be willing to answer. She's my sister and I trust her with everything. I wish the feeling were mutual. I wish I weren't such a timid duckling all the time.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, barely above a whisper. I take a breath to collect some courage. _I'm not always a baby duck_, I tell myself. I've been to town by myself. I go with Momma on her house calls. Katniss doesn't do that. I feel my pretend feathers ruffling with the thought. "Do you think Rory likes me?"

"Everyone likes you, Prim."

"No. I mean, does he _like_ me?" I emphasize. Katniss tilts her face toward me. The moonlight reflects in her eyes, which have narrowed into slits. I feel a warm rush flood my face. I quickly look down at my lap—feathers unruffled. "It's just…sometimes Rory…is so sweet," I fumble, twisting the fabric of my nightgown. "Like when he made the game board and when he gave me a flower at the festival." I almost laughed when he offered up his flower. He just thrust it at me and said, "Here. I won this." And nothing else. It looked wilted somehow, despite being made from paper. Apparently, it had been stepped on by accident. I loved it anyway. How could I help loving it? "But other times, he's not nice at all, like when he ignores me in front of his friends." _That_ is annoying. No, _infuriating_.

Katniss rests her arms out in front of her on the table. Her shoulders sag with fatigue. "You're too young to date," she says.

"I'm not asking to date," I mumble. If I ever wanted to ask for permission to date, Katniss is not the person I would go to.

Katniss rests her chin on folded arms. So much of her hair has escaped from her braid it seems silly to have it pulled back at all. I stand and take a place behind her, one I know well. I untie her braid at the bottom and gently pull each section apart. I love doing Katniss' hair, though I'm not as skilled as Momma. My hair would be just as long as Katniss' except when I was eight years old I got it in my head that I wanted short hair, as short as Rory's. And he volunteered to do the job. Momma found us just as Rory was about to make the third snip. I swear, all the times in my life I've ever gotten in trouble, Rory has been involved.

"It makes me think of what Peeta said," I say as the last of the braid is undone. "About how a boy should always be nice to a girl, especially the girl he likes." I really like that idea. It should be simple. If you like someone, be nice to them, _always_. I search out the snarled parts of Katniss' hair and comb them out with my fingers. "Peeta is always nice to you." At this, Katniss rubs her fingers over her eyes. She takes a deep breath that might be calming to her, but it bothers me. Oh, I wish Peeta hadn't come in. I told him not to. Something was _off_ when Gale and Rory stopped by. The glances Katniss and Gale shared weren't…well, they weren't _nice_. Why didn't Peeta listen to me? He did all the other times. What happened on that walk?

My hands come to a halt in her hair. "Isn't he?" I question.

Katniss sniffs. She could be holding back tears or it might be the cool, night air. "Yes. He is," she mutters.

Katniss doesn't talk about Peeta…ever. She usually changes the subject when I bring him up or talks in short, patronizing sentences, like she did just now. I don't give that much significance because Katniss doesn't talk about boys in the same way my friends do. Or at all. I put stock in other things, like when she laughs at something Peeta says, or when she sneaks glances, or when they left the festival together. She doesn't know I saw that either.

I wonder if she knows that on the day of the festival, Gale asked where she was.

"Gale's nice, too," I say, slipping my fingers through the final knot at the ends. Gale _is_ nice, if also awfully serious. He and Katniss are very much alike that way. Down to the scowl. I'm sure Katniss likes him or is, at the very least, protective of him. Why should she be? They're best friends. But Gale…Gale I'm not sure of. "Last year, Rory once told me he thought Gale was going to go into the woods and never come back." He told me strictest confidence. He'd hate me if I knew I told someone. Thankfully, Katniss is good at keeping secrets.

Katniss sits up and twists around in her chair to face me. "Gale would never do that," she states earnestly.

I slide back into my seat. Katniss watches me closely. "I know," I reply with a gulp. "And Rory knows that, too. They're honorable men." I smile. Katniss gives a little nod, but doesn't smile in return.

I don't mean to betray Gale. He does so much to help us and I care about him. It's hard to explain. We've known him for years and when I was younger I thought he and Katniss were perfectly matched. They're similar in personality, equally brave, and best friends, but… "But sometimes I wonder where Gale's heart is," I think aloud. The fact is, while they might be perfectly matched, neither one has shown the other any affection other than to offer up the last dregs of squirrel stew. Nothing ever changes or has changed between them.

And then, Peeta was there. Standing in the hallway in front of Katniss, sweating bullets, and sputtering, and looking at her like she was the only girl in the world. He needed help, so I helped him. He gave me cookies, so I helped him again. He made my sister smile. Almost no one does that, so I'll always help him. "When it comes to Peeta…I don't wonder at all."

In the dim light I see Katniss blink several times. Wetness on her lashes sparkles in the moonlight, but not a single tear falls. She inhales several shallow breaths, keeping her face from betraying what she's feeling. She doesn't open up or tell me what happened with Gale tonight or what happened with Peeta after they left. She stares at something over my shoulder. The cabinet? Maybe she's hungry. She didn't eat much at dinner. She didn't have any bread either. _The bread._

"Did you want some bread?" I ask. "You didn't have any." Before she can answer I jump from my chair and open the creaky pantry. The bread rests on the middle shelf wrapped in the paper bag it came in. The paper crinkles loudly in the otherwise quiet room. I retrieve an already cut slice and a dishtowel and lay it all out in front of Katniss.

She looks up gratefully at me, the moonlight draining all the color from her face. "Thank you," she whispers. The exhaustion in her eyes breaks my heart. If she were a sick animal I'd know what to do. I'd wrap her in a blanket, feed her honey, and drip water in her mouth until she felt better. But for my sister, I have no remedies. She takes care of me, not the other way around. And she takes such good care of me. Maybe one day she'll let me take care of her.

When Katniss says nothing else I decide it might be better to leave her be. There will be more opportunities to talk this through. Tomorrow even. "I think I'll go to bed," I say. I lean down and kiss Katniss just above her temple. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Katniss replies.

When I reach the doorway I look back upon my sister. She has yet to take a bite of the bread. She stares at it like it's a fragile treasure likely to break at her touch, and in some ways, I guess it is.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh, Prim. You were wise beyond your years. I don't have any plans for other outtakes, but this one wasn't planned either. I'm open to suggestions. Thanks for reading.


	2. My Last Date with Peeta Mellark

A/N: The plot bunny for this outtake came from Medea Smyke who, after reading chapter 11, said something along the lines of, "I'm so mad at Katniss I'd rather have Peeta and Madge together." And along with Mrs. M's ideas about matchmaking well…this happened. So, please enjoy an outtake from Madge's POV taking place in the nebulous universe between chapters 11 & 12.

**My Last Date with Peeta Mellark **

Compared to most residences in District Twelve, the construction of our home is well-kept and sound. In spite of this, the walls in my house are thin. Very thin. Or maybe my hearing is above average. In either instance, after sixteen years of living in this house I am attuned to its every creak and moan. While sitting here in the den with a book in my lap, I recognize the small, muffled footsteps of our housekeeper, Faunka, as she putters through the kitchen putting lunch together. The floorboards in my father's study moan with his slow, lumbering pace down the hall. Quite often I can listen to whole conversations without the assistance of an empty glass against wall. I'm not the only person who is aware of this. Therefore, when there are long breaks in conversation, I know that things are being said that I'm not supposed to hear.

"Francis, this smells delicious! My mouth has been watering for hours," Dad bellows from the kitchen. He persists in calling her by her formal name. I inhale the salty, warm scent of the vegetable soup Dad speaks of. It's more comforting on a cold winter night rather than a humid summer afternoon, but Faunka cooks what she cooks and if you complain, you don't eat.

"Git your fingers off my ladle!" Faunka scolds. I smirk and shake my head. Faunka is the only person in the house, in all of Twelve, who gets away with talking to Dad like that.

"Is Madge around?" Dad asks, the volume of his voice dropping out conspicuously.

"If you kept your glasses on your nose instead of your pocket you might be able to keep an eye on your own daughter." Faunka huffs. Dad laughs, like he does every time Faunka insults him. She couldn't say or do anything that would make Dad angry, other than quitting.

Their voices slip into hushed murmurs difficult for me to decipher. I fight the urge to shift my body closer to the sound. This has been happening all my life and it's driven me crazy for as long as I can remember. Living in an official's household means official business will weave its way into conversations. Dad assures me it's all boring town-related prattle, and it often is, but the habit is ingrained now. Each and every time Dad drops his voice I go still, my ears perk up like a housecat, and I'm overwhelmed with a _need_ to know what's being said. Dad calls me inquisitive. Mom says I'm nosy. Faunka calls me an impudent snoop. She has a way with words.

"Madgie! You here?" Dad calls from directly behind me. I startle at the intrusion, my body having been on high alert when he decided to yell.

"I'm right here," I inform him.

Dad peers over the top of the brocaded wingback chair I'm curled up in. A smile breaks over his face. "Oh, good. I have some news for you. I went into town for some groceries this morning—"

"That is news!" I say teasingly. I slap my book shut and put my bare feet on the floor. Dad rarely goes out for such menial chores. Faunka won't let him; that, and his job is important.

Dad straightens his tie, shooting me a playful stink eye. He's dressed formally for no one in particular; though he has lost his jacket and vest due to the heat. "I'm quite capable of procuring sustenance for my family."

"Yes, but I would have thought you'd be too busy. You've barely stepped out of the Justice Building in a week." I jump up to return the book to its place on the shelf. Periodically I rearrange them, alphabetically or by genre, sometimes I turn them all upside-down. It makes it feel as though I have a new set of books to read. "Faunka and I could have done it."

"I don't like bothering you with chores. And Francis's joints are ailing her and I thought it best she take it easy today."

"Faunka doesn't know the meaning of the phrase." I run my fingers over the spines of the fragile books. I've read them all. Multiple times. Dad petitions for new books all the time, usually for the school, but every couple years all we receive is a new volume of _The History of Panem_. He encourages me to write my own stories.

"Likely so," Dad agrees. "Anyway, as I was saying, I was in town and I stopped off at the bakery and as I was talking to Mrs. Mellark she mentioned what a nice time her son had with you the other day, and she suggested the two of you get together."

The titles blur before my eyes_._ I carefully turn around so as not to give myself a head rush. He couldn't mean… "Pardon me?" I squeak.

"I thought it sounded like an excellent suggestion. He's coming to take you out for lunch." Dad puffs up with anticipation for my reaction. The words hang in the air, yet they don't make sense in my head.

"You set me up on a…?" I choke on the word. Compose myself. "_Date?_ With a _boy_?"

"Certainly not. Merely an _outing_," he clarifies. Dating has never been expressively allowed or forbidden in my household. It's more that neither my parents nor I have ever seriously brought it up. However, Dad makes the occasional blanket statement about how no boy will ever be good enough for his daughter. "You're allowed to have male friends. I hope that's never been in question."

"It's not," I mumble, twisting the hem of my grubby tank top. Something I wore specifically because no one would see me today. "But there's a difference between going out with a friend and my father _arranging_ it. It's not as if we're toddlers and you're setting up a play date."

"Oh." Dad deflates, both in voice and in physicality. And let me say, it takes a lot to make the tall man appear small. "Oh, I see," he repeats. One would think a man living in a household of women would have some kind of clue as to how the female mind works. Mortified is the correct emotion to feel here, right?

"I kept thinking of how you mentioned enjoying his company," Dad says, plunking into my chair.

I sigh reluctantly. I _did_ enjoy Peeta's company. Hanging out with him was far preferable to the brigade of girls from school, even if all we did was paint. I didn't plan on telling Dad anything about it since I'd agreed to go out with the girls and then I ditched them. Or they ditched me. It may have been a mutual ditching. Anyway, I ended up having to disclose the whole story about Peeta when I came home with a swish of blue evidence on my cheek that gave me away. And like I said, I told Dad I had a nice time with Peeta. My father is a diplomat. It's his job to act on behalf of others. I can't blame him for coordinating something he believes will make me happy.

"And Mrs. Mellark was so insistent about it," he adds.

Well, that I can imagine. Harpy.

Dad fishes his glasses from his shirt pocket and cleans the lenses with a handkerchief he always seems to have on hand. "And I worry about you sometimes, Madgie," he confesses. "I don't want you to be lonely." He places the round glasses on his pudgy nose.

_Translation: I feel guilty. _That's what he really means.

Besides, I'm not lonely. I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. I find being alone to be easy, even comforting. I don't know if that's because I was genetically equipped with such a disposition from birth or if it's a behavior I learned growing up. But no one believes you if you say you're not lonely. Not ever.

Flashing a tight smile, I sit down on the ottoman in front of the armchair. The cushion of which has long since worn flat. "The only thing I'm plagued with a meddlesome father."

He smiles back. Pats my bony knee twice. "I apologize. Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of him when he arrives."

"Don't do that," I say impulsively. My own sense of diplomacy kicks in. "I'll go out with him. Peeta is a friend, after all." _Sort-of. _We're not enemies. We even have a mutual friend.

"Well, that's fine, too," Dad replies with a satisfied nod—the same one he gives me when I earn a hundred percent on a test or when I master a new piece of music. It makes me want to take my answer back. My agreeing to go on a date should not be put on the same level as my accomplishments. I bite the impertinence resting on the tip of my tongue and glance down at my lap instead. Grubby shorts that match a grubby top.

"I guess I'll go change."

My closet contains the same clothing it does every day. It occurs to me that I should be concerned about what Peeta will see me in, but I'm not. The fact is Peeta has more than likely seen me in every one of these outfits. And secondly, he won't care what I'm wearing because he's dating someone else. He's _in love_ with someone else. Poor Dad. He set me up with someone completely unavailable.

I pick out a sleeveless top, a clean pair of shorts, and leather sandals. Then I stand in front of my vanity mirror and decide to brush my hair. I have to appear to put on some effort. Should I be more uneasy about going on a date with my friend's boyfriend? That probably should have been my first thought, huh? Instead I focused on being humiliated that Dad has taken an interest in matchmaking. Nonetheless, I know it's all a coincidence and not from any secret agenda of Peeta's. The rumors were flying around for weeks about him and Katniss and I finally got a vague confirmation out of Peeta the other day. I didn't tell anyone; it's their business. And it would seem that they haven't told anyone either, including Mrs. Mellark. Suddenly, I'm starting to look forward to the outing, if only to tease Peeta about where his secret-keeping has gotten him to.

After all the snarls are combed from my hair and the flyaways are battened down with a couple hairpins, I run out of things to do. Some instinct tells me I should be more anxious about this. Maybe I would be if it were a boy I was interested in. That seems like a crucial distinction.

Finding no reason to idle in my bedroom, I step into the hall. The door to my parent's room is open a smidge. The room is dark. I wish I could go in there and grumble to Mom about what a intrusive pest her husband is, and she would agree but chastise me gently, and then in some roundabout way she'd convince me to do this for my father's sake, assuring me I might even enjoy it. But the room is dark, which means the curtains are drawn, which means she needs darkness and quiet. A gesture I learned to recognize a long time ago.

The stairs creak one at a time. The clicks of hard-soled shoes tell me it's Dad. He arrives at the top of the stairs with a lunch tray for Mom—the one I take to her daily. I want to smack my palm to my forehead for not seeing it sooner. I should have known when my father stayed home today, during his busiest time of the year, that something was up. He's seeing to Mom while I go out and "be a teenager", as he would say. He also waited till the last minute to tell me about it so I wouldn't change my mind. I'll have to remember that strategy for future use.

"Madgie, I believe there's someone at the door for you," he says, being careful not to splash any soup from the bowl. The smell is intoxicating. I wish I could invite Peeta to stay here for lunch, but then we wouldn't be going _out_.

"Already?"

My father makes a face. Was I whining? "He's punctual."

"No one important is ever present to appreciate punctuality," I recite.

"You don't have to quote Francis to me. Hold on one moment, Madge." Dad sets the tray down on a side table that rattles when anyone so much as breathes on it and reaches into his back pocket for a small leather pouch. "I don't know where he plans on taking you, so take this in case." He places four coins in my hand. I never carry money, not even when I pick up groceries. Everything goes on a tab that Dad pays each month. We're one of the very few families able to purchase on credit, perhaps the only family.

"I doubt he's going to take me shopping," I say. The coins feel warm and heavy in my palm. And strange. Despite what people may think, I don't have any money of my own, and the house and everything in it belongs to the district, not my father.

"I want you to have a good time."

Little does he know my standards for fake dates aren't very high. I'd be happy to paint the side of a building again. I pocket the money, unwilling to disappoint him. "Thank you."

"Well, you look beautiful. Have fun." He winks and picks up the tray again. Quietly, he enters his bedroom to wake my mother, undoubtedly thrilled to tell her all about his sneaky plan to set me up. I wouldn't even have to strain my ear to hear the conversation.

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, Faunka is a half-step away from opening the front door. Subjecting Peeta to Faunka would be worse than a man-to-man chat with Dad. I won't put him through that, especially when I already know he's as much of a victim in this as I am. "Stop right there!" I say calmly, but forcefully.

Faunka pauses with her hand hanging in the air. "Is it no longer my responsibility to answer the door?" she gripes. "Because my old bones would be happy to hear it."

I ignore the comment. By now I can tell when Faunka is trying to distract me. "You could have warned me, you know," I say, remembering their whispered conversation in the kitchen.

"Young people have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing," she says with superiority. I don't know where she pulls these proverbs from. She barely finished school and District Twelve doesn't provide much of an education as it is. And they're not from the books in the den.

There's a quick, impatient knock on the door. "You're only answering the door to get a peek," I accuse, sliding in between her and door to protect Peeta.

"I'm old. It's my right to be nosy."

And my parents wonder where I picked up my bad habits. "Faunka," I say in a warning tone. If there's anything Faunka appreciates it's being forthright. She makes a noise of disagreement, but shuffles back to the kitchen. Finally in the free and clear, I take a breath and unlock the door. I'm prepared to open with a cheerful greeting, but my voice stops short when I see him. Peeta looks…awful.

"Hey." He coughs.

"Hi," I rasp. The cough doesn't sound like that of an illness, but that must be the reason because he looks terrible. His hair is flat on one side and sticking up on the other. His eyes are red like he hasn't slept in a week, and I just saw him four days ago. His clothes are wrinkled and dusty, like he came right from work. "How are you?"

"You ready to go?" he asks stiffly.

"Oh. Sure."

Peeta takes off before I get the door closed. Good thing I already have my shoes on because I have to rush to catch up with him. He doesn't offer any compliments on my outfit or questions about my well-being as one would expect from a polite conversation with an acquaintance, let alone a date. Not that I have any delusions that this is a real date. If anything, I thought Peeta would think it as humorous as I do. "Where are we going?"

"I thought we could go to Zeke's," he mutters with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

_And he sounds so excited about it, too._ "Zeke's?"

"It's a…restaurant. Ezekiel Marsh owns it," Peeta explains without looking my way. "We don't have to go there. We can do…something else."

_How considerate of you_. For the hundredth time I hold my tongue. I save it only because I've had a morbid curiosity about Zeke's since Faunka told me it's is nothing more than a "bolting-hutch of beastliness". "Zeke's sounds wonderful," I say pleasantly.

Peeta doesn't appear as if he's listening at all. His eyes cloud over and he stares at the ground directly ahead of us. I'm surprised he doesn't run himself into the side of a building.

"The weather's nice, isn't it? Not too hot," I say idly. I'm boring myself with this conversation. "It'll get warmer later on, I suppose."

Peeta says nothing. Fake dates shouldn't be this hard.

"And the bakery? How are things there?"

"Busy. We had to start a wedding cake over from scratch. My mom was pissed," he growls.

"That's unfortunate," I offer. This person next to me, stomping through the square, is not the Peeta I've grown up with. Peeta Mellark is known for his generally sunny disposition, just like I'm known for being mannerly and Katniss is known for being abrupt. Peeta was in such high spirits a few days ago, even in the midst of doing his chores.

Is it…is it me? Am I such unwelcome company?

My house isn't far from the square and the square isn't far from anything in Twelve so we make it to Zeke's in no time at all. Although, Zeke's is barely part of what is unofficially known as "Town". Because the population is so small District Twelve is officially all one entity.

The large bay windows in the front are clouded up with dust and look like they haven't been washed in fifteen years or so. I cup my hands over the glass to block the glare from the sun. All I make out is some cobwebs stuck to the inside of the glass.

"Why did you want to come here?" I ask out of pure curiosity. From what I've gathered this place is more of a tavern than it is a restaurant, only serving food to give the place a smidgen of respectability.

"I don't know. Mom told me to spend some money. Prove we could afford it, I guess." Peeta shrugs. Ah, well Mrs. Mellark needn't do that. My father could easily obtain a family's earnings for the year. In fact, he often does when he sends census forms to the Capitol. My stomach grumbles and I think of Faunka's soup. "We can leave," he proposes.

"No, let's go in," I say as I quickly make for the door. An opportunity to see a den of iniquity does not come by often. But upon entering, the only evidence of iniquity is a lack of cleanliness and the scent of stale smoke. The place is tiny, bordering on claustrophobic. It's also empty, save for one person who sits at the bar, hunching over a glass of something brown, murky, and undoubtedly homemade. Twelve is technically a dry district. It's possible no one is aware of this or if they are they ignore it, but it's in the district charter that hangs on the wall in my father's office at the Justice Building. I've read it five or six times.

"Shall we?" Peeta sinks down at one of the few tables meant for patrons such as us, the lunch crowd. I sit down across from Peeta in a chair that doesn't match his. I glance over at the bar and see and image of us in a warped piece of mirror hanging behind it. It's unlikely Peeta and I fit the description of Zeke's usual clientele. In fact, a dirty limerick about townies that's carved into the table top makes this very clear to me.

When Peeta doesn't say anything, I fiddle with a gas lamp that rests in the middle of the table; appropriate for a mining town. It may be a good thing they don't bother to wash the windows. The limited daylight helps to conceal the coal dust and peanut shells on the floor. "I've never been here before." That's probably obvious. The man at the bar wobbles in his stool as he lays his head down on the counter next to a television that's broadcasting static. I never thought of watching the Games anywhere other than my own house. I suppose if you're making bets you might need to be here to collect.

"I was here once last fall," Peeta says. "When Rilee turned eighteen. He wants to have my brother's bachelor party here, too." It's hard to imagine this place set up for a party. Seems like the kind of place to drown your sorrows. Maybe that's why Peeta had no qualms about bringing me here. His mood matches the décor.

Suddenly, the table jolts from under our elbows when a woman bashes straight into it. "What can I getcha?" the woman asks. She looks to be around thirty with wide hips and scuffed elbows that must bump into every surface of the tiny establishment.

"Two teas. Two cheese sandwiches," Peeta orders. The woman darts away before I can open my mouth. "Trust me. That's the only item worth ordering," Peeta informs me. He slouches down in his seat, tilting his head over the back of the chair. Again, I wonder why he chose to bring me here. We could have just as easily gone to the bakery or eaten the meal Faunka made. As far as pretend dates go, this one ranks low.

Peeta and I sit in silence for several minutes. The woman brings our tea, splashing a fair amount onto the table when she sets the cups down. No milk or sugar. It's weak, lukewarm, and not at all satisfying on a summer day. Not that anyone is coming here for the tea. Hutch of beastliness and all that.

Peeta continues to stare at the ceiling, ignoring me.

You know, maybe it's not the place that's wrong. Zeke's doesn't exactly come out of a girl's fantasy, but neither is doing chores, which is what we did last week and it was fun. This could be entertaining if Peeta weren't being a miserable killjoy. I'm stuck in this, too. It's not him alone. Even Katniss would be disappointed in him for acting this way.

Clearing my throat I say, "So, your brother is engaged? Grace Fielding, right?"

"Right," Peeta grunts.

"How did he propose?"

"The first time or the second time?"

"He needed to propose more than once?"

Peeta sits up, but leans his head in his hand like it's too heavy for his neck to hold up. "Well, the first idea fell through. Miche made a cake for her, covered in frosting roses, with the words 'Will you marry me?' written on it. Then, the night he was going to give it to her, Grace made some comment about not wanting her proposal to come in frosting."

"How did she know?"

Peeta rubs the back of his neck. A grimace takes over his face. "I think my mom might have had something to do with it. She ruined the surprise. She doesn't like Grace much."

I recall seeing Grace and Peeta's brother Miche as a couple when they were still in school. They were sweet. And every girl in my class was jealous of Grace Fielding. I grin, thinking every girl in my class would be jealous of me for sitting here with Peeta. Well, not for sitting _here_ in particular.

"Anyway," Peeta continues. "My brother isn't the most creative, so his second idea was to make a bunch of cookies and lay them out on her kitchen table in the shape of the words." The idea seems quite appropriate coming from a baker. And it's nice to think of someone putting in so much effort to make the girl he loves feel special. "I don't know why Miche had it in his head that the proposal had to be food related," Peeta mutters.

I laugh unexpectedly. Peeta glances at me like he isn't aware he made a joke. "She said yes though?"

"There wasn't any doubt. They've been together for years." Peeta sighs, his shoulders drooping. If the depressing surroundings aren't enough, it's impossible not to feel bad for him with such a forlorn look in his eyes. Who am I kidding? He doesn't want to be fixed up with me. He wants to be with Katniss, doing silly, romantic things like writing her messages in frosting. That's the way the Mellark boys are, a couple of them anyway.

Our sandwiches arrive a moment later. Luckily, I have my teacup in hand when the waitress comes barreling in. The sandwiches are served hot with whitish cheese oozing out of the sides. Amazingly enough one side is burnt and the other doesn't appear to have hit the pan. Peeta pushes his plate aside and scrubs his hands over his face. "Look, I'm really sorry about this," he says seriously. "My mom…well, my mom is a piece of work. When she saw you the other day she decided to match us up. I didn't ask her to do this."

"It's okay, Peeta. I didn't think you planned it," I assure him. "We have meddlesome parents is all." _Glad we finally got that out of the way_. No sense in pretending this is anything but what it is. I take a bite of my sandwich, if only to say I did it. How does a sandwich manage to be soggy on one side and crunchy on the other? I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand in lieu of a napkin. "I'm glad it was me your mother decided to match you up with and not someone who doesn't know what's going on with you and Katniss," I say honestly. I think back on the way Vesta threw herself at Peeta last week. He would have been a dead man today with anyone but me.

"There is no me and Katniss."

I'm brushing crumbs off my lap and suddenly couldn't care less about them. "What?" I whisper, even though there's no one to hear us. I'm pretty sure the man at the bar is sleeping.

"As of last Tuesday, she ended it," Peeta says matter-of-factly, but his eyes couldn't be emptier.

"I'm sorry," I reply. The words sound hollow and meaningless. Tuesday? The same day he told me they were together. So this is the reason for the poor dress and the haunted appearance? How could I have been so slow to realize? I haven't had much experience with heartache, but now it makes sense. Peeta's not ill or upset he was matched by his mother. He's heartbroken. "What happened?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," he mumbles, slouching deeper into his chair.

I wish my sandwich were worth eating, if only to give me something to do. I sip my bland tea, searching my mind for something to say. The truth is, I don't know a lot about Katniss and Peeta's relationship. No one does. It's obvious Peeta is miserable, which makes me wonder how Katniss is. She's even less forthcoming about her personal life, but that doesn't mean she's not hurting.

"What do you know about Gale Hawthorne?" Peeta suddenly asks. He peers at me through narrowed eyes. I freeze like I've been caught eavesdropping, which hasn't happened since I was eight. I've become very good at not getting caught.

"Uh…not much. He…uh…_works_ with Katniss," I say vaguely. I'm not about to take any risks on Katniss and Gale's behalf, even in a place as disreputable as this. "Sometimes he sells us berries."

"Hmph," Peeta grunts in response.

I release a breath of relief. There's more I could say about what I've observed and concluded. _They're close friends. They spend a lot of time together. Alone._ But I don't think those things impact what Peeta has…_had_ with Katniss, not really. Because Gale…well, Gale also has a reputation. In particular, a reputation with girls. Katniss has never struck me as the type to participate in what goes on at the slag heap.

And how do I know these things? I…I couldn't help it. The day Gale arrived at our doorstep offering laundry services, a scruffy boy back then, was the day he became another secret I needed to unravel. It was impossible not to be curious. It's still impossible not to be curious about the dark-haired, stoic, and sometimes menacing man he became. But it isn't his looks or the differences in our backgrounds that keeps me interested. No, it's something much less honorable. I value my diplomacy and my patience, but when I talk to Gale Hawthorne, he never fails to get under my skin. And the temptation to best one another is something neither of us can resist.

* * *

><p><em>The red-haired kid doesn't even bother to watch. I think his name is Rags. He's a freshman; that much I know. Every year freshmen are recruited to run the games. But instead of actually doing his job and watching as I throw rubber balls at a stack of painted milk bottles he stares across the lawn at a freshman girl with brunette pigtails. I should be glad. I mean, why would I want someone to watch me fail at this stupid game? Yet, if he were paying attention that would at least present the illusion that he thinks I might win. <em>

_In a fit of irritation I throw a ball at the kid, but unfortunately, my aim is just as bad as it was with the milk bottles and I miss. It does get his attention when the ball smacks twelve inches or so from his shoulder. He flashes me a dirty look. I shrug innocently. _

_I wind up my arm with my final ball, but just before I release, a voice startles me. Deep and cynical and…familiar. "You need to work on your follow through." _

_I peek over my shoulder. Gale Hawthorne stands a head taller than everyone else. Most seniors don't stay for the end of the year festival having grown too old for carnival games. They pick up the free food and leave. How long has he been watching me? _

_"My what?" I inquire. _

_ "Your follow though. Don't stop short when you throw."_

_Stop short of what? Of hitting the bottles? Because the whole ball to bottle concept I already understand. It's the execution that I haven't gotten the hang of yet. I twist back toward the booth and throw without thinking. My aim isn't any better, but the sound the ball makes when it hits the back of the booth is gratifying. I look back at Gale. "Better?" I bark. _

_"Not really." He smirks, stepping toward me. "I thought the guys were supposed to play the games and the girls were supposed to watch." _

_ I roll my eyes. The festival traditions are a touch antiquated, but that's all they are, little romantic traditions. They aren't hard examples of gender roles in Twelve or anywhere else. Despite this, my face flushes and I wish I weren't standing in front of Gale empty handed. "Maybe I want the satisfaction of having won my prize on my own," I say with confidence. _

_ "With that throw you're not going to have much chance of that," Gale scoffs. He leans against the corner column of the booth, folding his arms over his chest. _

_ "Do you seek me out just to make fun of me?" _

_ "Not usually, but in this instance I couldn't resist." _

Liar. You take advantage in every instance_. I flick my eyes toward anything other than Gale's face. They catch on a bright purple paper rose hanging out of his pocket. "And who might the unfortunate recipient of that be?" I point to the flower._

_Gale glances at his pocket. Then back at me. He doesn't even blush. He would if he had any decency. It could be for any number of girls. "Maybe I picked it up just for you," he taunts. _

_ I snort. "No chance."_

_ "Why not?"_

_"Because even you're not that brave," I say. And it's truer than I want it to be. _

_ Rags—I'm now ninety percent sure that's his name—finally distracts himself from the brunette girl and begins picking up all my wayward pitches. Gale remains where he is, leaning against the booth. And doing it way too well. We may be closing in our longest interaction ever. He usually only has time to collect his payment, make a snide comment, and leave. _

_"It's for my favorite girl," Gale says abruptly. "I promised her one."_

_ "Isn't she lucky," I say sarcastically…sincerely…I'm not sure what I mean. _

_ "Yeah, well, she's four so she doesn't have very high standards." _

Four? Oh. _"Sister?" I question. My voice comes out without an attitude. Dad would be proud. Gale nods. "Lucky." This time it's said with all sincerity. _

_Rags returns to the front of the booth, dropping all the rubber balls on a counter between us. "Did you want to try again?" he asks. There's no line behind me. In fact, several of the booths have started packing up. I didn't get here till late. I went home after school to take care of Mom so Dad could concentrate on work. I wasn't planning on going to the festival at all except Faunka stuck her nose in and mentioned it, and when Dad realized what I was missing he sent me here with instructions to have fun. _

_The kid eyes me with contempt. He'd much rather be off chasing that brunette no doubt._

_ "Yes," I answer assertively, picking up a ball. Rags sighs dramatically and steps off to the side. _

_ I ignore him and start lobbing missiles at the target. I skim the top tier once and it wobbles. _

"_Is that how they teach kids to throw in town?" Gale wonders aloud. _

_ "It comes naturally," I snap. I could have learned. There were always kids playing outside in the neighborhood. Except, I didn't like to be far from my mother; not because I was afraid of what might happen to me, but because I was afraid of what might happen to her if I left. She wasn't always ill, but her health could change so suddenly. And she needed me there to bring her cold glasses of water or to sing her songs about snowflakes and chocolate cake while she slept. These days, Dad constantly tells me the best thing I can do for her is to go out, have fun with friends. Nonetheless, that tethered feeling remains. I don't think it'll ever go away entirely. _

_After another whopping miss, Gale pushes off the column and rubs his hand over his forehead. "I can't watch this anymore. It's too pathetic." _

Good. Leave.

"_Please, let me show you," he pleads. _

_ This makes me pause. He draws closer. His calloused fingers gently touch my elbow, which is petrified in the midst of my unsuccessful technique, and pulls it down against my side. Little sparks of electricity itch across my skin where he touched me. I look away. "Fine." I'm surprised by how relaxed my voice is. The inside of my mouth feels as dry as a cotton ball._

_ Rags sighs loudly, again. There's no end in sight for this poor kid. You'd think he'd just give me a flower to get me out of his hair._

_Gale flicks his head at the kid and says "Beat it." Rags blinks at him, takes about three seconds to think it over, then he jumps over the half wall of the booth and scurries off toward a group of freshmen and the brunette he was eyeing. _

"_Okay," Gale begins, his voice taking on a composed, instructor's tone. He picks up a ball and moves into a natural, athletic stance. "Plant your right foot. Lead with your left." He demonstrates. I follow. Easy enough. "Arm back," Gale says._

_I copy his pose, but apparently I have it wrong. Gale touches my elbow like before, only this time he lifts it up higher. _

"_When you throw, point your elbow toward your target." He pretends to throw the ball in smooth, slow motion. The muscles of his arms flex with the movement. I narrow my eyes tightly on the stack of bottles and pray my face isn't as flushed as it feels. "Cross you arm over your body to follow through," Gale finishes with a flick of his wrist._

Oh, so that's what he was talking about. Follow through._ It takes a few tries to get my arms to coordinate with my legs. It's also hard to focus knowing that Gale is standing there, judging me. Then again, when is he ever not judging me?_

"_Good," Gale comments on my seventh run through. "Now let go of the ball."_

Darn. Just when pretend throwing was going so well.

Okay. Focus. _With my right foot firmly in place, I wind my arm back, snap forward, and definitely follow through, but instead of hurling through the bottles like I imagined, it veers off to the left near the base of the setup._

"_You pointed your elbow left, so it went left," Gale assesses. He demonstrates the form, this time moving comically slow. But Gale isn't one to make jokes, not with me anyway. And I know that this gesture, this whole lesson perhaps, is for his own amusement. So later on today he can laugh about how he couldn't teach the mayor's daughter, the little girl, the townie, to throw a stupid ball! _

_The ball soars from my hand without any conscious effort on my part. And on my second try since the lesson, my fifteenth try since I started, I hit the center of the stack and the bottles fly apart, clattering against the ground. _

_Gale leans back on his heels. "There it is," he says. Surprised. Perhaps pleased. Who knows?_

"_Too bad you chased Rags away." It comes out more harshly than I meant it to. _

_ "Who?"_

Oops. Maybe that wasn't his name._ "The kid." I gesture to where the freshman attendant was sitting. "I won't get my prize."_

_"Oh." Gale shrugs. He leans over the counter and comes back up with a pink paper peony. He holds it out to me. "Here." I hate the way my hand shakes as I take it, so I do it quickly, hoping he won't notice. "Wouldn't want you to be accused of stealing," he jibes._

_The flower stem crinkles in my fist. I take a deep breath and try to calm the gritty annoyance slipping though my veins. This is what Gale Hawthorne does. He hides venom in innocuous words. And then worst of all, I still feel the need to prove myself to him. _

"_I won this fair and square," I mutter. I stare at the flower and suddenly have the urge to pluck each and every delicate petal. _

"_You could start a new tradition where the girl gives the guy a flower." _

_ I sniff at that. "And who would I give it to? You?" That level of frankness I usually keep to myself, but the combination of irritation and his closeness rattles is out of me. _

_Gale shakes his head, smirking. "Depends. Are you that brave?"_

_I look up before I have to good sense not to. He stands close, not uncomfortably so, but close enough that I can see the scruff on his chin, notice he's missing the top button of his shirt, and watch his eyes flit over my face. Practically every word Gale has ever said to me has been a hidden challenge, but never like this. My heart pounds rapidly in my chest and I wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if I called his bluff. _

_I don't get the chance. Not today. _

"_I have to wrangle up my brothers," Gale says, stepping back. "See you around." _

_ I barely hear Gale's light footsteps as he treads off. I don't allow myself watch him leave. Instead, I curse myself for letting him leave me feeling the same way he always does: breathless. _

* * *

><p>Later on I realized I might have overreacted to the throwing demo, but with Gale Hawthorne it's so hard to tell. "Hide not your poison with such sugary words", as Faunka would say. We're both at fault, I suppose, to the point that I can't remember who started the feud. But if I had to bet I'd put all the coins in my pocket on him.<p>

I can definitely relate to Peeta when it comes to speculating on Gale's motivations. "Is Gale the reason Katniss ended it?" I ask.

Peeta shifts in his chair. The scowl on his face deepens. "I don't…I don't think so," he says dismally.

I bounce between a myriad of emotions. Confusion, concern, uncertainty…relief. That last one I swallow back with the last dregs of my tea.

"Do you think that a townie and someone from the Seam can be together?" Peeta asks. I'm surprised to see him sit up a bit straighter, watching me seriously for my answer.

"Of course," I reply. "We're free to be with whoever we wish."

"So if you brought home a miner your father would be fine with it?"

It's a good thing I finished my drink because otherwise the shock would have had me spitting tea directly in Peeta's face. Not so much about the miner part, just the idea in general. "If I brought _any_ boy home I think my father would fall victim to some kind of cardiac episode," I say to avoid the subject both in my mind and in this conversation.

"He let you go out with me," Peeta points out.

"He _arranged_ for me to go out with you. There's a difference." A big difference. A pretend date versus a meet-the-parents kind of difference. And while I do think that bringing a boy home would upset my father, especially at my age, I don't see the Town/Seam issue becoming anything of note. Would he be concerned? Of course. What father wouldn't? But the care of my heart would be his most important worry. I have little doubt however that in the case of Mrs. Mellark and her adamant matchmaking, love was the furthest thing from her mind. "If you love someone it doesn't matter."

Peeta pokes his drab uneaten sandwich. His pale face matches the color of the cheese. "Simple as that, huh?"

"There would be sacrifices, but there's no reason for us to be as polarized as we are. We—" My chair protests when I sit up. I take another appraisal of the dilapidated bar no more than a half mile from where I live in a comfortable house with thin walls, but no cobwebs or coal dust. Peeta looks just as out of place, despite how hard he's trying to waste away before my eyes. People from town, people from the Seam, we face different struggles, but we all have the same needs. We just lack the resources to fulfill them. The fault doesn't lie with my family or Peeta's or Gale's. It lies with the Capitol. If only that could be said during something other than whispered conversations. "We all live here," I say quietly.

"I guess." Peeta leans onto the table again. He moves onto tracing the carvings in the table. I lean forward onto the table, mirroring his movement. "There's something else. She doesn't want a boyfriend. At all," Peeta murmurs sadly, his voice rough.

Finally, we get to the crux of the situation, though I don't entirely understand it. I wish I were closer with Katniss. I regret not being a better friend to her. But one thing I do know about Katniss from the interactions we've had, is that she's steadily pragmatic and she has a reason for everything, even this. I tap my fingernails anxiously as I prepare to say something I know Peeta will not want to hear. "Then I suppose you should respect that."

Peeta swallows back on nothing. His cheeks redden for the first time today. Too bad I don't carry a handkerchief like Dad does. "Even if she has feelings for me?"

"You can't force Katniss to do anything," I point out. If he's gotten close enough to Katniss to call himself her boyfriend, then he's well aware of that. "If you care about her, you wouldn't want to."

The waitress abruptly manifests beside us once again. Both Peeta and I sit back in our chairs so she can take the plates. She doesn't even comment on how we've barely touched either one. On her back to the kitchen, or wherever she disappears to, she sets one of the congealed cheese sandwiches next to the man at the bar. He lifts up his head and sniffs the air, then immediately smacks his head back down.

Peeta uses this time to compose himself. His face is still red, but he's no longer sniffling, which is good because I don't know what I would do with a sixteen year old boy in tears.

"This is my first date," I blurt out. "Ever."

Peeta blinks. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

Peeta becomes the second man today that I'm able to embarrass. "I'm sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I've been…and this week has just been…and next week…" He clamps his mouth shut. Amazingly, _that_ babble I actually decode. He's had his heart crushed. It's been the worst week of his life. And next week is the reaping. The most wretched day of the year.

Wordlessly, I accept his apology. I reach into my pocket, find the coins there, and plunk one on the table. This might have been the worst date ever, but I would feel bad making Peeta pay for me. "Thank you for taking me on my first date."

"This does not count toward your first date," Peeta says adamantly. "Your first is going to be with a guy who worships the ground you walk on, who doesn't need his mother to ask you out for him, who—"

"Who isn't in love with another girl?" I laugh. Peeta looks down at his lap. That wasn't meant to make him feel worse. If anything, it's a comment on my bad luck. "Regardless, it was memorable," I promise him.

I push off the table to stand and straighten my clothes. Peeta doesn't bother to adjust his wrinkled shirt, but he does remember to set a coin on the table. It bounces next to mine, and all of a sudden I have a fantastic idea. The perfect way to end this disaster. "Do you have a pen?"

Peeta digs in his pockets, but comes up with nothing. I bite my thumbnail and glance around for a errant nail or a lost fork. Zeke's is cleaner than I initially gave it credit. I push my hair out of my eyes. My fingers brush against the hairpin I put there earlier. Excellent. The pin isn't sharp or broad enough to carve deeply into the table, but it does scratch the surface. I have a natural compulsion to look out for the waitress, but what are the odds that she'll care? The table is already crowded with graffiti.

"What are you writing?" Peeta asks from over my shoulder.

Nothing all that inspired unfortunately. If Faunka were here she'd come up with something genius. "Just a little note to prove I was here," I reply. I lean back so Peeta can see my scrawl.

MU WAS HERE, it reads.

Not too creative. Not very rebellious. But it's evidence I was here. Proof I was brave.

* * *

><p>AN: You know, a long time ago I told Medea that First Date was not going to become a Gadge story. At the time, I meant it. Thanks to her for the plot bunny and for coming up with the title.

Quotes paraphrased from Oscar Wilde & William Shakespeare. Also, thank you to my Great Aunt Faunka and my Great Uncle Rags for letting me snag their names.


	3. Double Date: Part I

A/N: The prompt for this oneshot was suggested a long time ago by Medea Smyke who wanted a double date scenario for Peeta, Katniss, Gale, and Madge. I will admit that for the longest time, I had nothing. As good as the prompt was, I had no ideas, and I wasn't even sure if Gadge had a place in the First Date universe. However, believe in the power of Gadge, fellow fans. Because when I was struck with this idea I absolutely had to write it. Please keep in mind, the term "double date" is loosely interpreted.

This oneshot takes place after the epilogue of First Date, during the unexplored autumn before the Victory Tour. Enjoy!

*Mature language warning* (You knew this was coming, right?)

Madge's POV

**Double Date – Part I **

My feet ache. The modestly heeled—yet higher than I'm used to—dark red mary janes once belonged to my mother when she was my age, but on me they're a size too small. They dig into the backs of my heels and scrunch my toes, but they match my wine-colored dress exactly, and Mom has always loved them. She was practically beaming when she saw me wearing them, and I couldn't bear to disappoint her.

I adjust my weight from my right side to my left for the hundredth time this evening. Eventually, my toes will go numb. That may be the high point my night.

Katniss sighs beside me—a veiled demonstration of weariness—but nothing could keep her polite smile from sliding into a scowl. Not in this company.

At least the camera crew is small this time; much smaller than the crews that invaded during our victors' return to Twelve. This crew only consists of a cameraman who wears dark glasses that conceal half his face, a producer with shocking blue hair, and a female director with an accent so thick I can hardly understand her. They've made a detestable first impression. And I don't say that lightly. The cameraman has pointed the camera at my chest, and lingered there, more than once tonight. The producer asks intrusive questions. And the director keeps telling us to change seats, freeze in place, and "look more authentic" without realizing the hypocrisy of her statement. Right now she's framing shots of Peeta sitting at the piano bench with Prim as she plunks out a tune I taught her recently. My parents and Mrs. Everdeen sit stiffly on our faded sofa, listening. Katniss and I watch from the far side of the room, standing in front of the bookcase. We intermittently sip sweet, pink punch from cut glass punch cups, of which we only have six remaining. I must confess to breaking one on my fifth birthday.

When the director takes a hold of Prim's wrist to adjust her position for yet another photo, Katniss visibly tenses. She quickly reverts back to her unnatural smile when the cameraman flashes his camera at us.

It must bother Katniss immensely to have to endure such attention after a lifetime of deliberately going unseen when and where she could. And then to be forced into situations like this where her _family_ is put on display? Pure torture for the introverted and private. While I can by no means compare my situation to hers, I have some idea what it's like to be in the public eye. And the only way to get through boring obligations is to find a good distraction. I sidestep closer to Katniss; use my cup of punch to partially conceal my mouth and say, "Prim has a talent for piano. I wish you'd bring her by for more lessons."

"Maybe I will. She's good at everything she tries. She and Peeta are alike that way."

"I've noticed they have a similar temperament. Rather…optimistic. Well, most of the time."

"Has Prim been acting different lately?" Katniss asks, concern lacing her voice.

"No. Not Prim." I smirk and look down at my glass so the cameraman doesn't notice. I hope not to be present on the day that dampens Prim's spirits. Being present to see Peeta moping and miserable at the tavern was enough of an experience. "Did you know I once went on a date with Peeta?"

Katniss flicks her eyes toward me. She's silent. Her eyes narrow a little. I can't determine if she's upset or if she's unsure how to absorb this information. Maybe I should have thought this conversation through before saying anything.

I clear my throat and try to smile reassuringly. "It wasn't anything serious," I say quickly. "In fact, it wasn't even his idea. His mother and my father arranged it, as if we were kids or something." I laugh awkwardly, glancing at Peeta and Prim again. She's teaching him a little duet to go along with her song. The producer speaks with Mrs. Everdeen again, asking them how they feel about their children's romance. She repeats her position about how her daughter is too young to be so serious, but she's happy to have her home. The producer smiles at her small-district sensibility, but frowns when he turns away from Mrs. Everdeen. Surely he wanted a more sensational answer that he can use to sell…whatever it is he sells.

"When?" Katniss whispers beside me.

I look back at her. "Hm?"

Katniss' fingers clench her delicate glass. We may be down to five glasses by the end of the evening. "If it wasn't when we were kids, then when?" she clarifies; her voice low.

"Oh…um…over the summer, I guess," I fumble to explain. _While__ you __were __dating __him,_I fail to mention. Katniss rests her gaze on her boyfriend, her mouth set into a straight line. I only thought to bring up that unfortunate mess of date as a joke; something to distract Katniss from this uncomfortable photo shoot. Instead, I've succeeded in making her mad at me. And maybe Peeta as well.

I clink my fingernails against my glass; ironically thankful for the Capitol crew for each moment their presence prevents Katniss from throttling me. I'd say more about how the date was a farce and failure; how the food was inedible and how I had to lie to my father about where we went, but the cameraman keeps glancing over at us and I don't want them to overhear and have a story to bring back to the Capitol. They'll give it some heinous tagline like, "VICTOR BETRAYS VICTOR" or "CATFIGHT IN DISTRICT 12". I gulp down the last of my punch, partially wishing we had spiked it like Haymitch suggested, when a thought occurs to me. The reason the date was so awful wasn't because Peeta was poor company, it was because he'd just been dumped. I didn't actually date him while they were together. I turn my back to the room and pretend to look over the bookshelf. "It was a few days before the reaping actually," I say under my breath. Katniss' mouth relaxes. I'm grateful she understands the significance of the timing. "It meant nothing to him, I promise. It was plainly obvious the entire time he was missing you."

Katniss casts her gaze to the floor to hide from the camera, but I catch a glimpse of her pained expression.

_Why__ is__ she __frowning?_I question. _Shouldn__'__t __she __be__ relieved?_

Katniss inhales a quick breath and forces the polite smile back on her lips. "Excuse me," she murmurs, setting down her cup on the edge of the bookcase. She crosses the room to stand beside Peeta and lays her palm on his back. Peeta immediately looks up from the piano keys. The brightness of his eyes dims ever so slightly when he takes in Katniss' expression. His eyebrows come together as if to say, _what__'__s__ wrong? _Katniss leans down and kisses his cheek in response. A gesture that says, _later_. Peeta stands up anyway, using the piano to steady himself, and places a light kiss on the top of her head. It's a small gesture, but so sweet and startlingly honest a pang of envy reverberates in my chest.

The cameraman, of course, misses nothing.

The producer attacks Katniss and Peeta with a barrage of questions, desperate for a sound bite different from the ones they've previously given. Dad steps in to help relieve the pressure by distracting them with some cookies Peeta brought. I look down at my empty punch glass and decide now would be a good time to refill it, knowing no one will really notice my absence. I glance at my mother before leaving. She's quiet, but seems comfortable enough. Thank God today has been one of her good days.

"Everything alright out there?" Faunka, our housekeeper, asks as I enter in the kitchen. She has a dinner plate in one hand and a dishtowel in the other.

"Like you haven't been listening at the door all evening."

"There hasn't been one word of interest uttered tonight. Unless rehashing murders and nightmares interests you," Faunka grumbles.

I hold my finger over my lips, hoping her anti-Capitol statements weren't picked up on the microphone. Faunka shakes the dishtowel dismissively at me. I stand next to her at the sink so I can lower my voice. I know very well how thin the walls are. "Everything seems fine. I think they're getting bored of the pat answers. Hopefully, they'll call it a night soon."

"Lord knows why your father invited them here in the first place."

"I'm sure he had his reasons," I say. I know more than I should, of course. The director wanted to record in the Seam, despite the fact that Peeta didn't grow up there, to get the most sensational story by filming the poorest of us. When my father suggested we have an intimate dinner at our house instead, I almost fell into the vent I was listening at. While Dad is a public figure, he rarely invites guests from the Capitol directly into our own home. He didn't reveal his reasoning to me, but I can guess. The Capitol already knows my father, my family. Being in a photo shoot with our district's victors doesn't put us at any greater risk than we were before. But the Seam is full of Katniss' friends—people she doesn't want the Capitol to bring attention to if it can be helped. I'm not certain if Dad would do this if not for the sensitive situation of having two victors in one Hunger Games.

Having two victors should be advantageous for the district; instead, it serves to send Dad's blood pressure through the roof.

I lean on the counter to take the weight off my aching toes. I should go back out there, not that the Capitol crew cares. Maybe I'll wait until Dad realizes I left.

"Take the trash out for me, please," Faunka asks.

Or I'll do some chores. I should have known better than to lean against the counter while Faunka is working.

The trashcan is heavier than usual due to the number of guests we had. Faunka made a beautiful meal, which the camera crew declined to eat. They claimed they did not wish to disrupt our routine, as if dinner in semi-formal wear is routine for us. They missed out on her delicious pumpkin soup. They're not likely to find food of such quality anywhere else in town.

I trudge back to the house after I've dragged the trashcan far enough down the alley, but stop short of opening the door. Perhaps out here I can actually steal a few moments for myself.

The air is cool against my legs so I crouch down, set my backside on the cement stoop, and cover my exposed legs with my skirt. This evening can't end soon enough. I'm glad to help Katniss in some small way; even something as small as entertaining those Capitol idiots, but I can't help feeling this is only the beginning for her. She's destined to have a lifetime of home invasions and constant reminders of the games.

At least she has Peeta. They fought through hell for one another, and still are depending how you look at it. They deserve any happiness they can find.

A crunch of gravel or leaves or _something_ startles me from my contemplative state. I sit up perfectly straight, staring into the dark alley while my ears strain to pick up another sound. We never get animals this far in. Nothing but the occasional chipmunk. And unless the sound was caused by a very large chipmunk, the sound most likely came from a…person.

I scramble off the stoop, not bothering to shake the dirt from my dress. I take a small step forward away from the yellow light being cast through the kitchen window. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat. "Someone there?" I call out. There's no response.

_What __am__ I __doing?_ I'm five steps away from the safety of the house and I'm calling out to an intruder in a dark alley?

I scurry backwards, but I forget to account for my shoes and trip when my heel gets caught between the cracks of the cement. I catch myself on one hand and suffer a mere scrape to my palm, when out of the corner of my eye a large, hulking figure suddenly comes right at me. Fast. My voice freezes in my throat, but it makes no difference because the shadowed figure crashes into me. My brain screams in fear—that is, until the figure's legs fly over me and his shoulder bangs into the trashcan I just put out.

"Fuck!"

Though it may be absurd, I'm slightly more affronted by the curse than being run over. However, when a deep groan follows my attackers curse I realize he's cursing the garbage can and not me.

My attacker pushes himself up and twists around, though his legs are still pinning me down. Even in the dark I recognize his face, especially when his face displays irritation, as he is so often irritated with me. _Unwarranted _irritation, I might add. "Gale?" I squeak.

When Gale sees his long legs sprawled over my stomach his eyes go wide and he quickly lifts them off. "I thought you went back inside," he says, rubbing his shoulder.

I could tell him I tripped and that's how I came to be hiding in the shadows, but I'd rather he think I was skillfully laying a trap, so I say nothing.

"I wasn't stealing anything," he says.

_Okay?_ Somebody's feeling a little defensive. I wasn't even considering such a thing. Instead of pointing this out, I get to the point of the matter. "What _are_ you doing?"

"I'm looking for my brother," Gale replies, climbing to his feet. He doesn't offer to help me up, but that's fine. I lay traps to catch alley lurkers. I can stand up on my own. I'm also glad I can't see the damage I've done to my mother's shoes in this light.

"Which brother?"

"Rory. He's been gone a few hours. Didn't come home for dinner."

_Rory._ I couldn't have described Rory Hawthorne's appearance prior to this past summer and not just because his hair is always falling over his eyes. Over the summer and into the fall he's been by a handful of times with some kind of berries or root vegetables he hopes to sell. They're never as ripe or as plentiful as the ones Gale finds, but I pay him anyway. Faunka always finds a way to use them. Rory is quiet and a little rough in appearance, but I'll say this much for him, Rory has better manners than his older brother. "He hasn't been by. Did you think he would be here?"

Gale bobs his shoulder—the uninjured one. "Sometimes your housekeeper hands out food when you have parties." He practically spits the word "parties".

"It's not really a party," I retort, feeling a slight edge come into my voice. Gale shrugs his hands into his pockets. As much as I'd like to argue, I quickly shake off my defensiveness. From the outside, this does look like a party. I'm wearing a dress and high-heeled shoes. Gale has no way of knowing we're not celebrating a damn thing. "I haven't seen your brother," I say calmly. "Do you need help looking?"

"He'll turn up," Gale says.

"Alright," I gulp. "I'd invite you in, but…"

Gale snorts derisively. "See you around, Undersee," he practically laughs as he turns away.

Suddenly, the alley floods with light. We both turn toward the house. The back door has flown wide open. Katniss stands in the threshold in her own pretty party dress the color of deep blue sapphires. Her mouth falls open at the sight of us. "Gale?" she whispers, taking a step out onto the stoop. She looks back and forth between the two of us. Her eyes cloud with questions. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Gale snaps. "I'm leaving." He stalks down the alley at a brisk pace.

Katniss bolts from the stoop, unsurprisingly agile in her leather flats. "Wait!" she cries as she grasps his arm. "Talk to me." Gale pauses, not by the force of Katniss' strength, though I don't doubt her ability to take him, or any person, down if she really wanted to. Gale stares at Katniss' hand on his arm, refusing to meet her pleading eyes. I feel as though I'm infringing on either an intimate moment or the seconds before a brawl. I struggle between a longing to sneak back inside the house to give them privacy and an impolite curiosity to know what happens next.

Luckily for my less well-mannered side, the decision is made for me.

"When did this become an outdoor party?" Peeta says as he steps out of the house. His playful smile instantly turns cold. "Hawthorne?" he says suspiciously.

I expect the camera crew to follow behind Peeta, but he's alone. I breathe a sigh of relief. This situation being exactly what those Capitol scum were hoping to find.

Katniss quickly drops her hand away from Gale's arm. Free from her grasp, he marches on.

"Gale is looking for Rory," I blurt out. Gale freezes mid-step. I don't know what makes me say it. If it's the heartbroken look in Katniss' eye or the simmering anger in Gale's voice or the careful way Peeta approaches these two as if they're a powder keg ready to go off. Faunka would say I'm nosy and want to fix things that are not my place to try to fix. "He's missing," I gulp.

"Missing?" Katniss repeats, looking at Gale.

"Don't worry about it," he says over his shoulder.

"Do you think he came to see Prim?"

"I don't—"

"I'll go find her," Katniss interrupts. She makes a break for the door before Gale can turn around to stop her.

"Be discreet," Peeta whispers as she passes him.

"I know," she whispers back.

The door slips closed behind her, leaving Peeta, Gale, and I in the quiet alley with nothing but faint music coming from the house. A sweet, romantic melody plays on a wind-up record player my father gave to my mother as a gift on the day of their wedding, knowing how much she loves music. As lovely as the song is, it doesn't fit together with the tension out here. Neither Peeta nor Gale deigns to look at the other. Men are impossible. I wrap my arms around my middle to keep warm.

"We came out here to tell you the crew started packing up," Peeta says in my direction.

"Good," I reply. Gale looks up from the ground in question. "A group of people came in from the Capitol today to film Katniss and Peeta. My parents hosted it," I explain. Gale nods and stares back at the ground.

Since my date with Peeta, when he confessed his suspicion that Gale might have had some role in his brief break up with Katniss, I've been, not desperate, but interested in asking Katniss if that was true. The only time I even came close was when Katniss and I were picking berries at the end of the summer. When I asked about Gale, Katniss' replies were abrupt, more so than usual, and she reluctantly admitted she hadn't seen much of him. I could tell from her voice it hurt her to speak about him. That same day we met up with Peeta at his house where he stuffed us with cheese bread and sugar cookies. I never see Katniss smile the way she does with Peeta.

Unfortunately, Gale couldn't look more miserable, even though he is trying very hard to look like he's not feeling anything at all. Stoic and untouchable. I could poke him in the arm with a safety pin right now and he wouldn't react.

We endure the tense silence until Katniss returns with anxiety written across her face. Her eyes are wide and her hands shake like she's struggling to keep still. "Prim is gone," she says in a hoarse whisper. Peeta and I close in around her. Gale doesn't move in or out, just stays rooted in one spot. "I looked all over the house. She was just here and now she's gone."

Peeta takes her shaking hands in his. He ducks down a bit to make himself eye level with her. "It's okay. She's okay," he says like he's placating a small child.

Katniss rips her hand away. "I don't know where she is!" she cries. "What if they—"

"Think for a second," Peeta interrupts. "They have no reason to hurt her. Isn't it more likely she and Rory snuck out?"

Katniss takes a breath and nods. Hurt her? Who would hurt Prim? Surely not the Capitol television crew. I mean, they might be desperate for a story, but desperate enough to harm Katniss' little sister? It's clear from the panic in Katniss' eyes she's contemplating these questions as well. "I have to find her."

"We will."

"_Now_," she says, sounding like her formally confident self. "Let's go." Katniss walks purposefully down the alley without waiting for anyone who might be following. Gale actually has to take a step back to get out of her way.

"Wait!" I call out. Katniss pauses and looks back over her shoulder. "You can't just leave. It'll look suspicious. They might go looking for you." If the victors leave without a proper goodbye, it could raise a red flag.

"Madge is right," Peeta agrees. "Should we wait until they leave for the train station?" Of course they don't plan to spend the night. That would be taking the District Twelve experience too far.

I don't have much, or rather, _any_ practice at sneaking out. And now is not the time to wander off and tell no one where we're going. Not with Capitol guests and new Peacekeepers patrolling the streets. "Okay, um," I stammer. We can't sneak out, so why not ask permission to leave? As Faunka would say, _ask__ and __you __shall__ receive_. "Just follow my lead. Or, don't say anything at all." At the last second before I walk through the back door, I turn around and make eye contact with Gale. "Wait here. Please," I instruct, though the "please" probably takes away from my forcefulness. Gale folds his arms and takes a seat against the trashcan. How confident am I that he'll stay? I wouldn't bet a tessera on it.

Katniss and Peeta follow me back into the living room where the crew is putting their cameras and notes away. Mrs. Everdeen appears completely calm, despite the fact that one of her daughters is missing. I'm sure it's an act though, so as not to alarm the Capitol people to any distress. My mother slouches against the arm of the couch, looking completely exhausted. I reconsider leaving for a moment, knowing Mom will need my help getting to bed. I think of Prim and swallow back my concerns. Dad is here. Faunka is here. Even Mrs. Everdeen could help take care of her if needed. I can spare one evening.

Dad stands in the threshold between the hall and the living room, watching the crew. I sidle up beside him with Katniss and Peeta in tow. "Daddy?" I ask carefully. It never hurts to lay it on a little thick. "Katniss and Peeta and I were thinking about going out for a little bit."

"Out?" he replies.

"Just a walk. We'll probably visit Peeta's older brothers at the bakery." I still haven't lied, technically, though there might be some stops between here and there.

"I don't know," Dad says in a low voice. The record has played itself out and he doesn't want to give the crew anymore reason to stay their welcome. "It's not a good time to be wandering around the district at night."

"We'll be careful. Please?" I beg. "I don't get to spend a lot of time with Katniss and Peeta anymore since they stopped attending school." This is fair, I suppose, considering what they went through. Although, the situation has left me with the option of eating lunch with Vesta and Delly every day, which is not ideal. I asked Dad once if I could leave school too if I passed the exams now. No such luck.

Dad heaves a sigh, like he's taking great thought and consideration on the matter, but I can tell right away I've hit the right note. Dad loves it when I enthusiastically take part in social teenage experiences, enough to set me up on them. He leans toward me and whispers in my ear, "Alright. Go out the back. I'll keep these people detained."

I kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you, Dad."

"Take a sweater," he murmurs.

I don't get a chance to grab a sweater unfortunately, because as soon as we've made pleasantries and said our goodnights to Capitol cretins, the three of us are back in the alley where, surprisingly enough, Gale waits perched against the trashcan.

"Nicely done, Madge," Peeta congratulates me.

"Thanks," I say, feeling a little breathless. This is the most rebellious thing I've ever done—if I don't count the underage at the bar thing or the poaching in the woods thing. And neither of those things was done at night so they don't feel as bad. "Where should we go first?"

"She's probably back at your house feeding Lady," Gale mutters without looking any of us in the eye.

Katniss and Peeta nod in agreement and immediately fall into action, walking quickly in the direction of Victor's Village. They're so focused they don't notice the tall alley-creeper is headed in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" I call out. Peeta and Katniss glance back, but keep moving. Prim takes priority over prickly friends.

"Elsewhere," Gale grunts.

It takes some effort to keep up with him because of my shoes and because my legs are much shorter than his. "Rory and Prim are more than likely together, correct? So what sense does it make to for us to split up?" I ask. The question is, of course, rhetorical. While I'm sure Gale is concerned with finding both his brother and Prim, he never considered himself a part of the "us" in the first place. Gale shoots a scowl at me that would normally make me cringe, but I've got so much adrenaline going my mouth keeps talking before my head thinks better of it. "Come on," I say, poking him in the shoulder. He stops and looks down at his shoulder, like I've done damage to it. "Prim needs you and you're holding up the search party." Gale mutters something worthy of Zeke's graffiti-engraved table tops through his teeth. Then he changes direction, if a bit reluctantly. He can spit and moan all he likes, but he'll have insight on where Rory might be, which means he can help us find Prim.

Katniss and Peeta are at least two blocks ahead of us already. I dash as quickly as my heels and the uneven path will allow, while keeping a steady eye on Gale. I fight the temptation to tell him to suck it up. At least he has boots to walk around in.

By the time we get to Katniss' house she's already blown through the front door and calling Prim's name. We pass Peeta walking out of the house just as we make it up the path.

"I'm going to check my house," Peeta informs us.

Gale and I pass through the threshold. Every light has already been hit and the house is steadily quiet, aside from Katniss yelling her sister's name. When Katniss races upstairs, I conduct a cursory glance through the first floor, but I have a feeling it's pointless. Prim isn't the kind of person who would let her sister worry. If she were here, she'd show herself.

I meet up with Gale again in the foyer where he's leaning on the banister with his arms tightly crossed. He's been doing a lot of that tonight. Sulking. I know Katniss and Gale's relationship is strained right now, but would that honestly deter him from helping Prim? I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, of course, because I don't know the whole story and he does have his brother to worry about, too.

My toes are throbbing so I lean against the wall opposite him. "Where have you looked for Rory?" I ask.

"A friend's house, the Hob, school," he rattles off.

_And__ my __house_, I think. "Does he disappear often?"

"More than he used to." Gale sighs, slouching against the banister, like there's a physical weight draped across his shoulders. "It's hard on my mom. I'm not home enough to keep him in line."

"Oh," I say dumbly, startled that Gale would confide any kind of confession in _me_. The girl he can't help but subtly mock at every opportunity—as if I'm too daft to pick up on the joke. The boy must be exhausted. Or perhaps he hit his head in addition to his shoulder on his way to the pavement earlier.

Katniss slips down the stairs quickly, barely a wisp against the wood floor. She relays what we've already gathered. "She's not here."

"Well, let's think," I say, trying to keep a level head. I also stand up straight. _A__ good __stance __and __posture __reflect__ a __proper __state __of __mind, _Faunka's voice recites in my head. "Where might she go? To the park? Or the bakery maybe? Maybe she went back to your house with Rory." I gesture toward Gale.

He snorts. "Unlikely," he mumbles.

Katniss, who has been listening to Gale's grumblings for years, doesn't miss it. "What does that mean?"

Gale holds his hands up in a defensive pose. "Nothing."

"Gale, if you know something—"

"Prim doesn't come by our house anymore," he snaps. "Why would she be there now?"

"It's not safe for her to walk around by herself. And we both know I'm not welcome."

Gale perks up and gathers close to Katniss, getting right into her face. Katniss doesn't blink. "Do not put this on me. You made your choice," he seethes.

Having very little firsthand information, I don't follow much of their argument. I was under the impression that Katniss does stop by the Hawthorne residence to share her hunting haul. But I also know that Rory goes on his own hunting trips and Gale hasn't mentioned anything about it, so perhaps a lot that goes on at Gale's house that he doesn't know about.

Katniss defiantly breaks away from Gale and moves to the hall closet, removing a heavy wool jacket that doesn't match her dress at all. However, it looks warm and I think about asking to borrow one. She sweeps it around her shoulders in one fluid motion. "You can hate me, but if Prim gets hurt—"

"You think I hate you?" Gale interrupts. His hands form fists at his side.

_Well,__ if __the __pouting__ and __the__ sulking__ and __the __harsh__ words__ are __any __indication__…_

"I don't know what you think anymore. You never talk to me. Peeta says if I wait—"

"Do not start quoting the dough boy," Gale barks. "And I haven't said anything because I have nothing to say. So keep on thinking what you're thinking."

I gasp at that more audibly than Katniss does. Sure, there are plenty of people I wouldn't put it past Gale to hate. Me, for instance. I've been victim to enough of his backhanded compliments to know I'm not his favorite person. But Katniss? Why should he hate her? It doesn't make sense. Surviving the Games should have brought them closer. That's what it's done for Katniss and me. But obviously there's something unresolved between them that's holding them back. Something Gale can't seem to forgive. And I have a bad feeling it's Peeta.

Speaking of the baker, he returns from his house a little out of breath. He sees Gale standing in an intimidating pose over Katniss and quickly inserts himself right next to his girlfriend. "What's going on?" he says in a low voice that doesn't match the natural huskiness of Gale's voice, but it's a fair attempt. Gale takes a step back.

Katniss ignores the question. "Did you find Prim?" she pleads.

Peeta touches her elbow, as though physical contact will soften the blow. "She wasn't there."

Fear crosses Katniss' features. I'm so accustomed to seeing Katniss cool and collected, it's unnerving to see her scared. We have to find Prim immediately. "Maybe we should split up," I suggest.

"You just said we shouldn't split up," Gale says.

_Oh,__ really? __Now __you__'__re __going __to __fight __me __on __this?_ "The ability to be flexible is an important part of creating a successful plan," I quote. That might have been a mix of several different Faunka-isms. Gale lifts an eyebrow at me. As if he's in a position to judge anyone's behavior.

"Katniss and I will go to the bakery and look around town. Can you check back at your house?" Peeta asks helpfully.

Gale waits a beat before answering. Perhaps he didn't expect the "dough boy" to talk to him so civilly. Then again, Peeta missed the fight. "Yeah. Fine," he says.

"If you find her, meet back here," Katniss instructs. She and Peeta waste no time moving swiftly down the path—Katniss a half step ahead of Peeta because of his limp. Gale cuts across the front lawn without a glance back at me or Katniss and Peeta. Come to think of it Katniss and Peeta don't seem expectant to me to follow either, which leads me to question what I actually meant when I made that suggestion about splitting up. Was I thinking of Katniss or was I thinking of Gale? I mean, I would be crazy to go with the grumpy, sullen, alley-skulker, right? Then again, Katniss and Peeta don't really need my help. Someone needs to keep an eye on Gale.

Crazy it is then.

Unfortunately, I can't follow Gale with much stealth. My shoes completely betray me. First with my toes. Now with the noise. Gale twists around "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice filled with annoyance.

I slow down my pace and approach him slowly—as one might approach a rabid animal. "Looking for Prim and Rory."

Gale rolls his eyes so dramatically I fear he's going to pull a muscle. "Go along with Katniss and the cream puff," he tells me with a dismissive wave of his hand. I'm taken aback for a moment by the variety of the insults Gale has on hand for Peeta. When I catch sight of his back again, I forge ahead. Gale hears the click-clack sound of my shoes coming toward him and stops walking. "I'm going to the Seam," he says to me like I'm a moron.

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "I've been to the Seam," I respond.

"Congratulations."

As painful as it is for my toes I can't help shifting my weight to one side and crossing my arms. "I'd chalk your surliness up to your spat with Katniss, but you're always this way."

"I'm not surly. I'm pissed off."

"You don't have to convince me."

Gale runs a hand down his face and groans. "Look, I've had a shitty night and I don't need some prissy townie following me around."

_A__ prissy__ townie!_ He calls Peeta childish names, gets into a convoluted, snarky fight with Katniss, and he calls _me_ prissy? I drop my hands to my sides, stand up straight with my shoulders back, shake off any discomfort from my shoes or the cool autumn night, and look him directly in the eye. I'm thankful for my heels as they lift me just above his collar bone. When it comes to intimidation I need the height. "Think of it this way. If we do find Prim, you're probably not in the mood to return her to Katniss. And aren't you fortunate to have a prissy townie on hand to escort her home?"

I don't know what Gale expected me to say, but it wasn't that, and he definitely didn't expect me to stick around when he told me to scram. Funny. You'd think with all that time he spent with Katniss he'd be used to stubborn women.

Gale releases a strangled growl of exasperation, but fails to offer any argument. He's clearly reached the end of his patience, succumbing to surrender.

I walk alongside him since he doesn't tell me to do otherwise. While I have been to the Seam, it's not as familiar to me as my own neighborhood. I've only been on the school trips to the mines. And the tavern; if that counts. But that's the extent of my expertise. And I'd be lying if I said the unfamiliarity and the plethora of criss-crossing dark alleys didn't make me nervous. However, that's not exactly a fair assessment. The only place I've ever been "attacked" was behind my own home after all.

Gale defers far from the main road; the one that leads toward the mines. I try to keep track of the directions but he meanders through so many cut backs and back alleys I get completely turned-around. We're not in the "good" part of the Seam either. This is that slightly darker spot on my father's housing map—darker because the houses are so tightly packed the ink runs together. We pass more than one huddle of miners gathered in the street. Their gazes lock on me every time. I couldn't stand out more with my red dress and red shoes and probably red face. It's so cold my nose starts running. My feet hurt and I barely keep up with Gale's wide strides. Would he take me home if I asked? And why haven't we found Prim yet? What if the news crew really was behind her disappearance?

Finally, we stop in front of a nondescript gray house with no shutters and a horribly chipped front door. "Wait here," Gale says coldly.

_Very __funny_, I think. _Throwing__ that __back __in __my__ face_. He slams the door behind him; however, the latch is worn and it bounces back open a hair. I lean close to the door, hoping to hear something, but the house, much like the neighborhood, is quiet. With Gale out of sight I can truly express my weakness to the cold and my aching feet. I practically fall against the doorframe and hug my body as it shivers. How humiliating would it be if I asked to borrow a sweater? And more importantly, am I willing to suffer any humiliation in the presence of Gale after he accused me of being a prissy townie? Maybe I'll reconsider when my toes fall off.

The door creaks open a smidgen wider. My attention is drawn to tiny fingers holding the door open. One soft gray eyeball peeks at me from the gap. Surprised, I wave awkwardly at the little person. She or he scurries away with the speed of a frightened rabbit. Interacting with young children has never been a natural talent of mine. I haven't had much practice, but I always feel like I bore them. Making that little one run away at the sight of me is a new low.

A few seconds pass and the door opens again. This time a tall, somewhat shabby, yet imposing woman stands in the threshold. The little spy from the gap hides behind her legs.

"Gale? Did you leave a young lady out on the stoop?" she deadpans.

_Yes!__ He __most __certainly __did!_ Since the question isn't directed at me however, I keep my mouth shut. She doesn't strike me as the kind of woman it would be wise to talk back to.

She opens the door wider and says in a motherly tone, "Come in. Sit down and warm up."

"Thank you," I reply sincerely. The house is surprisingly warm in temperature. Not so much in the décor. Faded sheets pinned to the walls decorate the single room that acts as kitchen, dining, and living room. There's not much beyond the bare essentials: a table with only four chairs, a dusty stove and sink, a couch covered with massive stacks of meticulously folded laundry. Gale's mother is a washerwoman. We've never taken her up on her services because we have Faunka. And she makes me fold my own laundry.

"I don't believe we've met," she says, casting a furtive glance at Gale. "I would remember my son bringing home a girl like you."

I mentally choke on the absurdity of that statement. As if Gale would ever _bring__ me __home_ to meet his family. He didn't even let me come in the house. "Madge Undersee," I say to introduce myself, trying not to let any nervousness sneak into my voice.

"Mrs. Hawthorne. Lovely to meet you, though the circumstances could be better." She gestures to the one open spot on the couch, offering me a seat. The cushion flattens uncomfortably under my weight, but it feels amazing to be off my feet. "So, you're looking for my second born?"

"And Prim Everdeen. She's gone missing from a get together at my house."

"Neither one has been here I'm afraid."

"It's important that we find them both. There's a crew of people from the Capitol in town. And it's just not safe in the district right now, especially at night. My dad plans to impose a curfew, but he has trouble with enforcement, both with the Peacekeepers and with the offenders," I ramble on and on.

Gale and his mother exchange glances. They're doing that horrible _Madge__ said __something __stupid_ thing Delly and Vesta do when I say something…well…not stupid, but something socially clumsy. I run the sentence through my head again. _Oh__ god_. I ran my mouth about Peacekeepers and lawbreakers in a household of poachers!

"I see," Mrs. Hawthorne says politely. "Gale, may I speak with you in the other room?" Without words, he follows her into an adjacent room. No more than five seconds after they've exited a little boy with a handful of corncob dolls is booted into the living room. He sniffs indignantly but goes uncomplaining around the chairs and _under _the kitchen table with his dolls and continues playing.

I bury my face in my hands. I can't believe I stuck my foot in my mouth like that. Thank god my family is a regular customer of Gale and Rory's or their mother would think I was trying to get them in trouble!

There's a gentle _pat-pat-pat_ on my shoulder. I lift my head out of my hands to see the little person who spied on me. Her wild, long, and curly hair makes it very apparent she's a girl. I should thank her for telling her mother I was outside. "I'm Posy Hawthorne. You have a pretty face."

It's impossible not to smile back, knowing my nose is runny and my hair is probably a mess. Posy Hawthorne just became my favorite person. "It's nice to meet you, Posy. And thank you."

"And I like your shoes." She points at my feet.

_Ugh.__These __shoes._ "They are nice. Or they would be if they fit." I lean forward and slip the accursed things off. I almost faint with relief when I stretch my toes. "They were my mother's."

Posy sits on the floor and pokes one of the heels. "All my clothes are for boys." She pouts. Her pants are rolled up brown corduroys with patches on the knees. Her shirt is a similarly colored brown sweater she has yet to grow into. Poor, little thing in her brothers' hand-me-downs. No wonder I couldn't tell if she was a girl or boy at first. I have hand-me-downs too, but at least they're girls' clothes.

"I guess I'm lucky to have only had aunts." I shrug. The youngest Hawthorne brother hiding under the kitchen table ignores us happily. He keeps to his dolls, which I notice after a second look aren't dolls in the traditional sense. One has four arms and another has sticks coming out of its head like antlers. I had so much more growing up. How can families living only a few miles apart live so differently?

Impulsively, I pick up my shoes and put them in Posy's hands. "Here. You keep them." Posy gives me the side eye. She's awful savvy for a four year old. "It'll be our secret," I whisper. "It will be a few years, but they'll fit you one day. Or maybe your brother can trade them for a dress just for you." Her mouth curls into an adorable grin.

The door to the second room opens and without missing a beat Posy holds the shoes tightly and scurries under the table with her brother. Neither Gale nor Mrs. Hawthorne seems to think anything of it.

"Let's go," Gale says flatly. His mother elbows him lightly against his side. He shoots her a dirty look and then adds, "Please."

"Gale! Wait!" Posy crawls out from under the table and flies at her brother with open arms. He scoops her up with a well-rehearsed move. She cups her hand around his ear and whispers something I can't hear. Gale listens with rapt interest. Then he rolls his eyes.

"Don't worry, Pose-Nose. I'll watch out for her." He kisses her on the temple then sets her back down.

_He must mean Prim. Watch out for Prim._

As much as I'd like to talk to Posy a bit more or find out what kind of monsters the little boy has made his corncobs into, we still need to find Prim and Rory. "Goodnight, Mrs. Hawthorne."

"Goodnight, dear. Hope to see you again," she says as she closes the door on us.

We walk a few paces from the house. The ground is cold and rocky, but I'll gladly go barefoot rather than walk in shoes that don't fit. "So, where are we headed?" I ask.

Gale shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks to his right. Looks to his left. "I don't know." He takes off to his right. I guess we're winging it.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

* * *

><p>AN: You won't have to wait long for the second half. It's already written. Happy Thanksgiving to the American readers!


	4. Double Date: Part II

A/N: Today (the 5th) is my birthday! I decided to post to celebrate. Also, endless thanks to the ladies at the Quarter Quill for pre-reading! Enjoy!

****Double Date – Part II ****

* * *

><p><em>Previously…<em>

_We walk a few paces from the house. The ground is cold and rocky, but I'll gladly go barefoot rather than walk in shoes that don't fit. "So, where are we headed?" I ask._

_Gale shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks to his right. Looks to his left. "I don't know." He takes off to his right. I guess we're winging it. _

* * *

><p>"Where would you go when you were twelve?"<p>

"The woods," he replies automatically. "It's too dark now, though. Plus Rory wouldn't take Prim there. She's terrified of the woods."

"Hm," I think out loud. When I was twelve I liked to visit my father in his office at the Justice Building or accompany Faunka to the market. I never went anywhere unsupervised. And no place as dangerous as the woods. I wouldn't consider going there now at age sixteen without Katniss. I'd have to think twice about whether or not I'd go with Gale. I can't be sure he wouldn't abandon me out there.

"There's always the mine, but that seems even more unlikely." Gale smirks to himself.

My jaw drops open a little. I can't help it. "You went to the slag heap when you were_ twelve_?" I know it's not right to judge, but…_twelve__ years __old?_ I didn't even know what going to the slag heap meant until I was in the upper school. He must be joking. I can't see his mother allowing him to do such a thing.

Gale peers at me through narrowed eyes. "What do _you_ know about the slag heap?"

There is simply no good way to answer that question. "I know what goes on in my own district."

Gale stares at me for a long second, thoughts spinning behind his eyes. Slithering nerves slide around my stomach. It's so much easier to hold his gaze when he's saying something nasty. Quiet, thoughtful Gale is surprisingly intimidating. He's never taken so much time to come to some conclusion about me. He usually comes up with those before we meet up. "Fair enough," he finally says, looking back to the path ahead.

_What__ does __that __mean?_ I don't hold his reputation as the so-called make-out god against him. So he shouldn't hold it against me that I've never been to the slag heap with a boy. Gale judges me all the time. Why does this instance bother me so much? "True. I don't have much practical knowledge—ouch!" I yelp when my foot lands on a sharp rock. I balance on one foot and grab the other to knock the rock from where it's embedded in my skin.

"What?" Gale asks. He sees me holding my foot off the ground and his tone changes from indifferent to something between surprised and annoyed. "Madge, where are your shoes?"

"Um…"

"I should have noticed you had gotten shorter."

_Hey!_

"You can't walk barefoot around here!"

I set my foot tentatively back on the ground. "I couldn't exactly walk in the shoes I _was_ wearing."

Gale huffs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. Poor Gale. This night is not going at all like he planned. He taps his fingers against his leg while coming to some kind of decision. Then he kneels on the ground right in front of me. "Here. Jump on," he says over his shoulder.

He can't be serious. I haven't ridden piggy-back since I was…I don't even have a definitive memory of being carried piggy-back. I must have been as a kid. "Uh…? Are you sure?"

"Unless you want your feet torn up then jump on."

I feel about as graceful as a hippopotamus as I put my hands on Gale's shoulders and press my front against his back. "Oh!" I can't help but squeal when he pops back up without warning, grabbing under my legs. My skirt rides up past my knees. I wrap my arms around his neck out of instinct. "Sorry," I mumble

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I'm not heavy?" I don't give much thought to my weight on a daily basis, but being carried makes me appallingly conscious of it.

"Heavy? No. But I'm not sure about your common sense."

"Hey! I'm quite sensible."

"Says the shivering girl with no shoes."

"I would have been better prepared if time had not been of the essence," I insist. "And I only shivered a little." I thought I hid the shivering rather well.

Gale laughs, low and rumbly. I feel it just as much as I hear it. It's so strange to be so close to him, or anyone, I suppose. It's not like boys are offering me piggy-back rides right and left or anything. But this is _Gale_. The boy I despise most of the time. His rough, canvas jackets smells like laundry soap. His callused hands, which are under my thighs, are warm. It may mean nothing. He may only want to avoid allowing the mayor's daughter to injure herself while in his company. And after years of ridicule I'd be foolish to think the gesture means anything beyond that. Then why does my stomach feel packed with butterflies?

"Where are we going?" I ask aloud.

"You'll see soon." We bounce along the road for a while. Gale walks confidently with only the moon, the stars, and the occasional overhead street lamp to guide him, if it hasn't burned out. The gravel crunches loudly with each step and I'm even more grateful he offered to carry me. I hope he's not expecting compensation.

We drift further from the tight clusters of houses. At one point Gale cuts behind a house and we end up parallel with the fence. No surprise Gale would find the scenic route. I still feel a bit strange about being carried and silence only adds to the awkwardness, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I like the woods."

"Yes. They are pretty to look at."

I barely resist the urge to pinch him. I hold off only because I don't want him to drop me. "I've been in the woods to forage and hunt," I say proudly. "I even had shoes then."

"No kidding?" he laughs, as though he doesn't believe me.

"You think I'm full of it. I went with Katniss. She said my modified rabbit snare was remarkable." This is only a partial lie. The truth is I botched the snare with overly complicated knots that fell apart with the tiniest breeze. Katniss mentioned it was "remarkable" that I had messed it up so thoroughly.

"Katniss took you into the woods?"

"Yes," I repeat.

"Who doesn't she take into the woods these days?" he says under his breath. I only hear because my ear is right next to his mouth. So much for trying to start a conversation. He's still in too foul a mood. I decide to focus on the search instead. "Rory brought us mushrooms just two days ago. Maybe he—"

Gale comes to an abrupt halt. "Wait. What?"

"I said Rory—"

"I heard what you said," Gale snaps. He sets me down a tad roughly. Thankfully, the ground is grassy enough not to injure my naked feet. "What do you mean he brought you mushrooms?"

"I paid him of course. Last Friday," I explain. Gale rubs at the aggravated wrinkles lining his forehead. My suspicion about Gale's lack of knowledge about Rory's new foraging business is more or less confirmed. "You didn't know?"

Gale sighs. "I figured he's been sneaking out. I keep telling him not to go by himself. He's not experienced enough, but I work twelve hours a day." He moves on without another word, plainly preoccupied with what I told him. He reminds me of my father when he's pacing back and forth in his study, trying to work out the district's problems in his head. Gale would be offended if I told him that.

"I didn't mean anything by that offender comment I made earlier, by the way," I say in apology. "What you and Rory do to keep your families fed is a talent, not a crime. I wouldn't buy from you if I didn't think that, nor would my father condone it. The curfew is just to keep people safe. Things are…out of the norm…right now." Unfortunately, that's as specific as I can be on the topic.

Gale nods. I take that to mean he accepts my apology and I can't help hoping he'll apologize for calling me prissy. But then a shiver runs down my back and I know there's no chance of that happening. Gale removes his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders _without_ making a comment. I murmur my thanks. Tuck one arm in one sleeve. Then the other. It's much too big on me and I have to push up the sleeves to free my hands. I feel worlds better wrapped up in the rough yet warm material.

Eventually we come across a well-packed down road, which poses minimal risks to my feet, other than getting dirty. It takes me a moment to recognize where we are in the dark. The scene is illuminated by a few scattered streetlamps lit for safety's sake, though only when the power is on. I've been here a handful of times. Never at night.

"So, this is it?" There's not much to say. It's a slag heap; well, several slag heaps with a rather salacious reputation. Nevertheless, it's merely piles of debris taken from the mine. Not exactly the picture of romance. We follow a rut dug into the road by carts until it leads past the mountains of rocks to the smaller mounds that will grow up to be the size of their sister mountains one day. There's a pile of old railroad ties stacked up to about three feet off the ground. I climb onto the stack for a better look. "No Rory. No Prim," I observe. Not another soul.

Gale surveys the heaps as well, but from the ground. He has enough height all on his own. "I'm glad. If I found them here I'd have to kill my brother."

"And no one likes a hypocrite," I say under my breath. Not quietly enough however, because Gale turns and casts an annoyed look at me. It's nothing like his scowl though. It's too playful. I bite my lip and shrug.

He shakes his head and leans against the stack of railroad ties. "You never go easy on me, huh, Undersee?"

"Goes both ways." And has for several years. I carefully squat down beside him, letting both legs hang over the edge. I take a deep breath of cold autumn air. Then I cough repeatedly when I choke on it. This place is awful. "There isn't really much to it, is there? The woods are far more charming."

Gale snorts. "No one goes to the slag heap for the atmosphere."

_So__ they __come __to __inhale__ coal __dust__ and__ risk __contracting __tetanus?_

"You being here is bizarre to be honest," Gale admits.

"Oh really? And what would I need to make the image less 'bizarre'?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you had some coal under your fingernails to start."

_Oh, __well __if __it__'__s __as__ simple __as __that!_ I jump off the railroad ties and march to the edge of one of the piles, being careful to watch where I step. I lean down, push up the jacket sleeves when they fall down, and pick up clumps of dirt until my hands are coated with black. I smear it down my cheeks and across my forehead like war paint. I stride to Gale and plant myself firmly in front of him so he can get a good look. "There! Better?"

He smirks, but doesn't laugh. He reaches up and covers my cheek with his hand; his thumb either brushes some of the coal off or pushes it around the apple of my cheek. "Yeah. I can barely see your halo," he says quietly. It's a good thing there's dirt all over my face or my blush would be embarrassingly obvious. I step out of his touch before he feels my face heat up.

"My halo is no brighter than yours," I mumble, trying to brush the dirt from my hands without getting it on Gale's coat.

"I think not," he says derisively.

"Why? What do you know about me?"

Gale's jaw snaps closed and I nearly regret asking the question. What does Gale Hawthorne really think of Madge Undersee? Spoiled. Privileged. Ignorant. The prissy comment is the only time he's directly insulted me, but his backhanded compliments and sarcasm have been enough to make his feelings known. I'm always the mayor's daughter to him.

And I'm tired of it.

"Before tonight, you didn't know I'd gone hunting," I say, my voice a bit shaky. I swallow to steady myself. "Before tonight, would you have expected me to follow you around through the Seam?" Gale stares at the ground between us. "And hosting that party tonight wasn't motivated by some frivolous desire. We risk exposing ourselves to the Capitol's scrutiny, something my father wanted to protect the citizens from." I take several deep breaths in quick succession. My breath manifests as faint white puffs. With all the coal in the air one would think it would be black like smoke.

I hug Gale's coat around tighter around me. Vesta and Delly would be so shocked to hear he offered it to me. They think Gale is a scary ogre who lives in the woods. If only they saw the way his sister adores him. "Besides, you're not exactly a villain. Posy would agree with me." I can't help but smile thinking of the way he teased her with a pet name and kissed her goodbye before we left his house.

"I don't know anything about being a villain. I known lawbreaker however…"

A laugh bubbles up from my throat. Gale's gaze shoots to me and I can't help but turn away. I'm not laughing at him. I'm laughing at the way Gale clings to his crimes like he's actually going to convince me he is the bad guy, like so many townies believe. Just by looking at our surroundings I know that's not true. "Laws imposed by a corrupt dictatorship that controls, starves, and murders us for entertainment. You may break the Capitol's laws, but only after they've broken every moral law. Your act of rebellion hardly compares to that evil."

I peek back at Gale. His eyes are wide. His mouth hangs open a little bit. He looks…stunned. But not appalled. Saying such treasonous words would shock most people and I wouldn't say them in front of just anyone. I doubt Gale feels any loyalty to the Capitol, so what may have actually stunned him is how it was _me_ that said it. The townie. A feeling of pride warms me from my fluttery stomach to my cold, aching toes. It feels incredible to finally one up Gale Hawthorne. "But getting back to the point," I fumble on. "You're not a villain and you're not the embodiment of some Seam stereotype. In fact, the worst thing I've ever observed of you, other than constantly belittling me…" I pause to consider finishing my thought. While the events of this evening give evidence to the contrary, I'm hesitant about meddling. I press on because I so desperately want to know Gale's side and because I believe he wants someone to know it, too. "How could you say what you said to Katniss?" I finally ask.

I barely blink before Gale's internal walls go back up. "We are not talking about this," he says with a tone of finality. He stands up, but I block him before he can move.

"She's your best friend. How could you let her believe you hate her? Because I don't believe you do." The way he spoke to her was cold and cruel, but he seemed more than just angry. He seemed hurt. I might even compare his behavior to Peeta's at the tavern; except, Peeta was melancholy-sad whereas Gale is angry-sad. Somehow, he pulls it off. I tried to be gentle with Peeta, but knowing how Gale appreciates boldness, I speak daringly. "Are you in love with her?"

"She's got a boyfriend," he recites.

"That's not an answer."

Gale's eyes remain hard and determined, but I've still got enough adrenaline running through my body to help me stand my ground. Though I admit I probably don't look very formidable in bare feet and a coat that isn't mine. The battle of wills ends when Gale slumps wearily against the railroad ties. And why not? This is obviously something he's been carrying since…who knows how long?

Sensing he's no longer planning to take off, I perch beside him on the stack again; set my feet on a spot they do reach, and wrap my arms around my knees. "Tell me," I all but whisper.

Gale leans his hands back and looks up toward the black sky. "When Katniss was fourteen years old," he says, "she decided she was never going to get married or have kids. No romance in her future."

I know this from what Peeta told me during our date, though I didn't realize Katniss had made her decision so young. "What did you think?"

Gale shrugs as best he can with his arms behind him. "I agreed with her some of the time. I mean, I've got three kids as it is." For a split second I want to commiserate. I also share the burden of caring for my mother. But it's not the same, and every time I ever complain to myself about her situation, I always feel guilty about it afterward. So I hold my tongue and listen. "But I don't know…," Gale trails off. "I think back to when my dad was alive. We were poor as dirt, we still are, but we were happy. Sometimes."

My memories of the memorial service for victims of the mining accident are few. I was present for the memorial, but I kept my head down during most of it. Seeing all those weeping women and children made me sad and uncomfortable. I do remember Gale. He was one of the few who didn't cry when my father presented him with a medal. And when that same skinny, dark-haired boy appeared on our front doorstep the following summer, I never stopped noticing him.

"Anyway," Gale continues. "Katniss stuck to this idea for years. And then…" His voice drops into a menacing tenor. "The bread boy started hanging around. Giving her cookies. Flirting with Prim. Kissing Katniss in the meadow. She took him into the woods. To the cliff over the valley. That was_ our_ place!" His voice cracks on the last word. He glances at me and then looks away, apparently embarrassed by revealing so much.

"Peeta suspected you were the reason they broke up before the Games," I prod.

"Maybe. But not in the way you're thinking. I reminded her of the promises she made to herself. If I had been in her place I would have wanted someone to remind me of my principles."

"But you would have been glad if she ignored her principles had she been in love with you," I declare as a statement, not a question, because it is obviously true.

"I never claimed to be ethical," Gale replies, a slight smirk crossing his lips.

I roll my eyes. I felt so badly for Peeta, but all's fair in love and war, I suppose. And if Katniss could be talked out of a relationship with Peeta by her own arguments then maybe that's fair. "What happened after that?"

"The Games happened," he says frankly. "And I lost her."

I scoot a smidgen closer to him, close enough that our shoulders are almost touching. Gale and I may only know how to be enemies, but hearing the pain in his voice chases away any feelings of competition. Vulnerability looks good on him. "I'm sorry you feel like you lost your friend." _Your__ closest __friend._ While he would never admit it, he needs someone to lean on. The relationship he had with Katniss before the Games simply can't be what it was before. I believe Gale sensed that prior to the Games when she was falling in love with Peeta. He's only now coming to terms with it. "I'm glad they're in love," I confess. "Could you imagine if they weren't?" If it had all been some sort of a ruse or act? "They'd both be miserable." And what they have going on now isn't rainbows and sunshine, not with the Capitol breathing down their necks.

Gale leans his elbows to his knees. His hair falls into his eyes. He needs to get it cut. And he needs a shave. He's about as scruffy as Rory. "You must think I'm pathetic," he mutters.

_Pathetic?_ Not a word that's crossed my mind in relation to Gale. Prickly. Rude. Overly-critical. Snobbish. Those have all come up.

But also brave. And honorable. I wouldn't pay attention to someone for this long if he was some horrid batch of nature. "I think you're a boy who got his heart broken. That doesn't make you pathetic. Given how difficult your life has been, it's remarkable you have a heart big enough to break." I lean forward to pat him on the shoulder at the same moment he turns his head. Suddenly, we're so, so close. And all my lessons on manners scream that I should lean back and give into a convention for personal space. Yet somehow, I'm frozen. Gale isn't moving either, aside from his eyes. His eyes flicker over my features, from my eyes to my mouth, and back again. For the first time, perhaps ever, his stare doesn't make me feel small. I feel…exposed, which is odd considering he's the one who's been pouring his heart out.

"You should be careful," he whispers. "You're going to get a reputation sitting this close to me."

The moment feels too intense and too intimate for words. And for goodness sake, as long as I'm here… I close the distance and kiss him.

The kiss lacks all finesse and style. It's not so much a kiss as it is pressing my lips against his unmoving ones for less than a second. I do it all wrong. I _must_. I've never done it before. What the hell do I know? It doesn't even make a proper kiss sound.

Gale continues to stare. His eyes blink slowly. Seconds turns into days as the silence carries on. However, I think I prefer he _not_say anything. Especially if he's going to say something horrible like, "is that how they teach kids to kiss in town?"

I'm not so lucky. Gale wets his lips and whispers with honest curiosity in his voice, "Why?"

_Because__ you__'__re __the __only __boy __who __I__ know __anything __about,__ even __if __it__'__s __not __a__ result __of __you __being __forthcoming._

_Because I like you, even though you've treated me poorly in the past. I think you can make up for it._

_Because you carried me on your back and that's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me._

"Just trying to get the full slag heap experience," I lie. Sort-of.

He smiles, amused, but not mocking. "Not even close, Undersee." His hands skim over the sides of my face, cupping it gently. He moves closer until our noses are a breath from touching. Some instinct tells me I should close my eyes, but I can't stop staring. This can't be real.

And then he brushes his lips against mine. Not once, or twice, but over and over in soft, tender pecks that get my heart pounding so hard I hear my pulse in my ears. My eyes close under their own power. I have an urge to tell him I've never done this before, but he can probably guess that, and if he doesn't, it sounds so desperately unsexy to admit it. The pressure increases in small increments while his hands move to the back of my neck, down my shoulders, until they're tucked under my coat, _his_ coat, and splayed over my lower back. My hands feel useless lying in my lap, so I lift them to his face, because I liked it when he did the same to me. He pulls me closer and my fingers comb through this hair; then wrap around his neck. I'm practically sitting in his lap.

I follow his lead like a puppet on strings, which isn't a comparison I like to make of myself, but the feel of his hands and his mouth distracts me enough that I can't work up the proper indignation.

And oh god…his mouth. Who knew the same mouth that has so strikingly offended me in the past could also leave me feeling dizzy and stiflingly hot in my oversized jacket? When his lips part, his tongue touches my upper lip and I let out a little squeak. I swear I feel him smile. Not one to be outdone, I answer by parting my own lips and tentatively sliding my tongue against his. He doesn't smirk at that. He groans and embraces me tighter.

It feels incredible. Hot and demanding and a little scratchy where his shadow of a beard touches my chin. I surprise myself by thinking I wouldn't mind more; that I _want_ more. I want to experience what's beyond my imagination. Hawthorne boys are such bad influences.

_Hawthorne boys. Weren't we looking for a Hawthorne boy? _

I pull away, out of breath and disorientated. It gives me a pleasurable thrill to see him looking a little dazed as well. And with small traces of coal on his cheek and forehead from where his skin touched my face. I swallow and focus on finding my voice. "We're supposed to be looking for someone. Prim, I think. And Rory."

"Right," Gale breathes. He peels his hands away from my back and waist. I scoot away so I'm no longer in his lap, my face flooding with heat. I point to my own cheek and forehead, indicating where he's got smudges. Gale wipes it off gruffly with the palm of his hand. "There's one other place she might go. Though I don't know why she would be there."

Thank God he has an idea because I wasn't completely out of plans. "Is it far?"

"Not at all."

Gale doesn't carry me like he did before, but he keeps a keen eye out for anything treacherous. He has better eyes than me and guides me away from jagged rocks and broken glass more than once, usually by touching my elbow or shoulder. I feel him squeeze my elbow before he lets go, like he doesn't want to release me. The air feels heavy, but in a completely different way from before when we were fighting. I can barely stand to look at him without blushing. Each glance and touch brings back the warm, buttery feelings of the slag heap. And while I'm never going back there for any recreational reason—it's too dangerous a place for making out—with an experience like I just had I get why some people consider it special.

To distract myself, I focus on figuring out where he's taking us, and I realize there's something vaguely familiar about this string of Seam houses. "This looks familiar," I muse.

"Katniss' old house is just up this way."

Of course. Katniss and I stopped at her house for supplies before going to the woods a few times. Not far in the distance I see two figures speed walking down the road at us—one blonde, one brunette, and both too well-dressed for the Seam. For District Twelve, really. "Looks like Katniss had the same idea as you," I murmur to Gale. His face hardens and any of the vulnerability brought out at the slag heap fades away. It makes me sad for both him and Katniss because she doesn't deserve it and I suspect Gale is tired of carrying a grudge.

The four of us arrive at the gate in front of Katniss' old house at virtually the same moment. Gale and I wait for Katniss and Peeta to go first since it is her house and her sister after all. The front door seems stuck, but with a strategic shove Katniss forces it open. Immediately, all our eyes are drawn to the floor where a single candle burns. And there as well, is Prim dressed in a scarf and warm wool coat, and Rory, huddled over something.

"Prim!" Katniss exclaims, throwing her arms around her sister. Then she leans back and grips Prim's shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Katniss," Prim says, sounding bemused. "How are you?"

"You had us running all over the district looking for you."

"Why on earth did you do that?" Prim laughs, like it's a joke. She looks over everyone in the room. Her eyes go wide when they land on me. "Madge, what happened to your face? And your shoes?"

The whole room turns to me. Katniss' eyes go as wide as her sister's when she finally notices the state of my outfit. I hide my chin in the collar of Gale's coat and tuck one foot behind my calf. "Um…," I stammer. _Why__ don__'__t __we __have __Gale__ field __this __one?_

"Why did you sneak out?" Katniss asks her sister, staying on topic. "You know better."

"I didn't sneak out!" Prim shouts, her delicate feelings clearly affronted. "Momma knows where I am."

The room is effectively silenced.

"She does?" Peeta pipes in.

"Yes. She suggested I come here. I would have told you, but I had to leave right away and you had left the room," Prim explains.

Peeta, Gale, and I look over at Katniss for an explanation. She didn't ask her mom about Prim's whereabouts? Katniss' mouth seems to have clamped shut. "And your mother knew the whole time?" I ask Prim.

"It would be hard for her not to. Rory came to the front door to ask for my help." She smiles sweetly at Rory, who purses his lips and looks away. I wonder where he picked up such a hot and cold attitude?

"Ask for your help with what?" Katniss questions.

Prim and Rory lean back from whatever they were so intently huddled around. All four of us peer over Rory's shoulder. There's a small wooden box, a drawer I think, filled with old clothes and something with feathers. "Is that an owl?"

"Just a barn owl," Rory explains. "I found it on the ground. I thought it was dead, but it was breathing." The owl's eyes are barely open and I can barely make out the quick rise and fall of its little chest.

Gale moves in closer so he's standing over his brother. "And where did you find this owl?"

"By the fence line," Rory answers quickly. For a lawbreaker, he's a terrible liar. "I didn't know what to do with it, so I went to Prim's. Then I remembered you were having that party with the mayor and went there. It was either that or eat it."

"Rory! You can't eat an owl!" Prim exclaims.

Gale folds his arms and raises his eyebrow skeptically. "And you came here and looked after this animal and that's it? That's _all_ you did?"

Rory swallows hard. "Y-yeah," he stutters. Prim looks at the two of them with confusion written all over her face with no idea as to what Gale is insinuating.

_Unbelievable._ _Giving __his __brother __a__ hard __time. __And __after __everything__ we __did __at __the __mine._

"Do you think you can save it?" I ask.

"Yes, I think so. "Her wings seem okay. I think she may have eaten something poisonous. A couple days of hand feeding ought to set her right." She strokes the owl's head, and while I wouldn't have guessed owls to be very friendly, it seems soothed by her touch.

Peeta lays a comforting arm around his girlfriend, whose face is tinged with pink embarrassment. I'm sure she's mostly relieved. He turns his attention on Gale and me. "What happened to you two? You get into a bar fight or something?"

I try in vain to wipe off the dirt from my face with my hands. "Something like that," I mumble.

Suddenly, Gale slides in next to me, so quietly I didn't notice until he speaks. "Katniss, can I ask you something?"

Peeta grips Katniss fractionally tighter. Gale couldn't possibly want to continue the fight now. Not in front of the kids. But then I notice the relaxed state of his shoulders and the lack of tension in his jaw, which makes me wonder what it would feel like to kiss him there… But getting back to the point, Gale isn't poised for a fight right now.

"Rory is sneaking out more than I would like." He casts an accusing glance at his brother. "Would you mind checking on him, make sure he doesn't get mauled by wild dogs?"

"Hey!" Rory hollers.

Katniss and Gale ignore him. "Of course," she promises.

"Thank you," Gale replies. He glances at me, as if looking for approval. I smile back. It's not much. There's still much that needs to be said, but it's something. An olive branch of sorts. I'm proud of him for stepping up.

"Prim, it's getting late," Katniss says to her sister.

"But the owl…," she protests.

"We'll keep an eye on her. She'll be safe here," Gale tells her. Prim dotes on the bird a bit more before she and Rory gently place the drawer back into an unused dresser, leaving it open a little so it doesn't suffocate.

"I'll be back to check on her tomorrow morning. Before school," Prim pledges.

"I'll come, too," Rory adds enthusiastically. "Then we can walk together."

Gale puts his hand on the back of Rory's collar and lovingly shoves him toward the front door and away from Prim. "Maybe you'll actually get up on time for once," he says.

Before we leave the house, Katniss offers me her shoes. She apparently has a pair of boots stashed here for her own use. Prim regales us with the details of her night as we walk down the front path. And by the way she describes it, it sounds as exciting as ours. I pause at the gate to Katniss' front yard where Gale waits, leaning against the fence. He's always leaning against things. Faunka would scold him for his bad posture. Rory stands a few feet off, pretending not to watch Prim. Katniss comes to a halt when she notices I'm not trailing after her. I try to convey with a wave of my hand that I'll catch up, which doesn't work because she stares at Gale and me with a bewildered expression. Thankfully, Peeta gets it, takes her hand, and tugs her away to give us some privacy.

I turn back to Gale. "So. An interesting night." _And__ then__ some._

Gale wets his lips, as if recalling the finer details. "It was memorable," he says with a devious grin. My heart does something funny. When did his sly smile stop annoying me?

"Do you think you'll be back on speaking terms with Katniss soon?"

Gale's smile levels into a straight line. What a mood-killer I can be. "I wasn't giving her the silent treatment. I just had—"

"Had nothing to say. I remember," I cut in. "However, it seems you had a lot to say down at the mine."

"You mean the _slag__ heap?_" And now the smile returns.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," I propose.

"So now I'm a dirty secret?"

I groan in annoyance. That certainly didn't take long. The banter feels different though. Less cutting. More teasing. I could get used to it. After lifting his jacket from my shoulders, I hold it out to him and say, "I'll see you around?"

Gale takes the coat, tucks it under his arm, and puts his hand casually in his pockets. "Yeah, I'll watch out for you next time I'm strolling down an alley." He hits me with one more smile before turning to join his brother. I do the same, looking to catch up with Katniss and Peeta. A flurry of thoughts flies through my head, overwhelming me with the events of this night. How will I ever explain my dress to Faunka? And my shoes? And is there anyone I can tell? I told Katniss about my last date and that didn't exactly go over well. My last date…

"Gale! Wait!" I call out to his retreating form. He faces me without hesitation. He waves Rory on then covers most of the distance between us by himself. His legs are ridiculously long. I'm a little out of breath when we're close enough to speak. "Did you know I once went on a date with Peeta?" I blurt out. Gale was remarkably honest with me at the mine. If this is the beginning of something…be it a friendship or something more…I have to repay him with the same honesty, especially considering how he feels about Peeta.

Gale blinks as he considers this. My stomach tightens with anticipation, preparing for the brush off, the scathing insult. Then, miraculously, a crooked smile lights up his features. "Now you're just screwing with me, Undersee."

I see no reason to correct him.

* * *

><p>AN: Poor Madge! Her dates take her to the seediest places in D12! However, I felt like the First Date series couldn't be complete without someone going to the slag heap.

PSA: Don't make out at slag heaps! It's really not safe. Mwah!


	5. Common Archery Injuries

A/N: This is from ages ago, but I had it, so…here it is.

This snippet is dedicated to debzzz. This was a scene debzzz requested to see from Katniss' point of view. It takes place in Chapter 9, when Peeta is trying his hand at archery for the first time. Un-beta'd.

**Common Archery Injuries**

Katniss' POV

The woods are nothing new to me. I easily keep to the path while still keeping one eye out for potential prey and the other on Peeta. Considering the way he continues to stare up at the sky with his mouth open, he's likely to walk himself right off a cliff. I don't know if I've ever seen such a look of wonder on someone's face. On Prim maybe—when she's admiring the cakes in bakery window or the new dresses at Fielding's. Certainly not on those few occasions I've taken her into the woods. She's too busy looking over her shoulder for unseen predators to be anything other than terrified.

Peeta can't be bothered with stories of muttations or the perilous surroundings. He's too engrossed in the newness and freedom of it all to be scared. Watching Peeta take in the scenery—the trees, the sky, the birds—reminds me of walking through the woods with Dad. He had a much better eye for hunting than Peeta does, but he loved the landscape, too. He'd always bring flowers home for my mother when he could. Most were for remedies, but one was always just for the kitchen table.

I try to find that same aesthetic appreciation my father had for the woods. I have to. There's definitely not going to be any game today._ Not with the way Peeta walks_,I think to myself as I retrieve my bow from its hiding place. Peeta has no sense of stealth. Even now I can hear him practically _marching_ nearer.

"Wow," Peeta says when he reaches me. "So that's the bow that brings me squirrels."

"This is it," I say with some pride. The soft, worn grip sits comfortably in my hand. A familiar and calming feeling of security fills me. To have this bow means food. Survival. "I have a hand in it as well."

"Can I try it?" he asks hopefully.

I bite back a grin. Archery might look easy, but it takes a finessed hand and a great deal of practice. Peeta did have an archery primer back at my house last week, however. Practical application is the next step. I hold it out to him. He takes it carefully. His hands flex around it as he learns the weight of it. "It was my father's," I say quietly, surprising myself a little. I don't usually blurt out personal things like that. The fresh air must be getting to me.

Peeta's eyes crinkle with concern. "Uh, maybe you should take this back. I don't want to break it." He tries to press the bow back into my hands. I take a step back, waving him off.

"You're not going to break it," I assure him. He'll be fine as long as he takes the proper care to shoot correctly or somewhere near correctly. I can't help a smirk, thinking back to the first lessons I had with Dad. I couldn't count the number of arrows I lost to the woods even after I had a handle on my form. Peeta will be lucky to send an arrow ten feet from his nose. After retrieving the quiver, I lose the smirk and relax against a fallen tree. "I'll be surprised if you can nock it."

Peeta scowls at me—his version of a scowl, that is. It's more playful than menacing.

"I carry tremendously heavy bags of flour every day. I'm not weak." Peeta stands up straight and tall. His stance displays the broadness of his shoulders usually concealed by a self-deprecating slouch. The determination in his eyes holds my gaze for a moment too long, and I grab an arrow and press the sharp tip against my finger to distract myself.

"Archery calls for flexibility, strength, and concentration. Not just brute force."

"I play soccer. That takes agility. And I wrestle. That takes flexibility," he says with a shrug.

I saw his wrestling match last fall. Part of it anyway. Prim begged me to stay after school like most of her friends who were staying to watch. I only agreed to stay because the weather was bad, too rainy for hunting. So, I sat with Prim in the gymnasium watching Peeta narrowly lose a match against his brother. His brother used an illegal move that the referee ignored.

"Fair enough, you're athletic," I admit. He's trained to wrestle boys of his weight class and skill level, but it's not _hard _work. It's not survival. It's just a game. I push up the sleeves of my coat and stand in front of him. "But you are soft. Look at your hands and look at mine." I hold open my palms before him and wait for him to do the same. "Yours are soft." It's no surprise to me that his hands are clean and pale. His nails are short. Maybe he bites them. But this is as it should be for him, for a merchant. Why should his hands have string scars and freckles from too much sun?

I glance up at Peeta. His mouth sits in a grim line.

Suddenly, he sets down the bow, drops his bag, and throws off his jacket. With a look of determination he holds opens one hand and says, "Give me a chance to build up some calluses. Can I have an arrow, please?"

I twirl the arrow and pretend to think about it. To be honest, part of me wants to see this. "Fine," I say, pretending to be disinterested. He reaches for the arrow, but I keep a hold of it. "Move your feet shoulder width apart," I remind him. Beginners always forget to set up a proper foundation.

Peeta offers a determined nod and takes the arrow. He awkwardly shifts his body into position. The arrow skims off the top of his hand, but eventually he holds it steady. "Are there any deer around? I'd love some venison for dinner." He laughs.

"We must have just missed a herd," I say. _Or you scared one away._ "Besides, you should aim for something that isn't moving. Try that oak tree." What we really need is a cloth bag stuffed with grass to hang from a tree branch. It would take some precision to actually embed the arrow into the tree, but if he gets anywhere near it I'd call that a success.

Peeta steadies himself twice more and takes two deep breaths to match. His strength stutters momentarily as he draws back the bow. I can already tell he's not using his back muscles as much as he should. Everything about his posture is tight, but he holds on. _Let it go_, I think. If that tree were a squirrel it'd be half a mile away by now. But his eyes are on the arrow, not the target. I stop reviewing his form and keep watch on his eyes. If he'd just look forward…

"GAH!" Peeta suddenly yells, clutching his arm to his chest. The bow is at his feet and the arrow has disappeared. I jump up from the log just as he shouts, "What the hell?!"

"Let me see! Let me see!" I tell him, tugging at the arm he has cradled against his body. A red welt is already rising on the inside of Peeta's arm. The damage isn't bad, but I know it hurts. I've done it to myself a few times. I notice Peeta's got his eyes squeezed shut and I almost laugh. All it needs is some aloe and maybe a cool compress. I'd tease him for being a baby, but for some reason I can't bring myself to do it. If this were me and Gale I wouldn't hesitate to hold back. "Sorry," I say quietly. Peeta opens one eye slowly. Then the other. "I should have warned you. String snap. You probably drew back too far." I skim my fingers near the welt.

"Don't touch it!" he pants as he pulls away.

But I keep a hold of him. There's something else there next to the welt from the bow. Marks. Thin, white streaks. Dozens of them blending into his pale skin. "Sorry," I find myself murmuring.

"You said that already," Peeta mumbles back.

Without thinking, my fingers float over the scars. How did he get so many? He doesn't hunt. He doesn't leave town apart from today. I can't make sense of it. Are they from his awful witch of a mother? I wouldn't be surprised. Are they just from working at the bakery? Even if they are, the battered look of his skin couldn't have happened overnight. Even I can see this is from _years_ of burns. Unless he's as clumsy with a baking sheet as he is with a bow, and I doubt that considering how talented he is at painting the cakes, it just doesn't…fit. Peeta lives a better life than most people. He shouldn't hurt like this.

"Is this where you tell me I'm soft again?"

Peeta's voice wakes me from my staring. I quickly let go of him arm, hoping I wasn't staring for as long as I think I was. "It's a common error," I say, picking up the bow from the ground. "Happens to the best of us."

Peeta takes a step closer. All afternoon he's been staring at the treetops. Now I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. "Has it ever happened to you?" he asks.

"Sure." I shrug without looking up.

"What, when you were ten?"

"Somewhere around there." I can, in fact, remember a time when my father was caring for my archery injuries. And before I can stop myself, I glance at him arm again and wonder, who, if anyone, takes care of Peeta?


End file.
